


Character Bleed Bonus Content!

by luninosity



Series: Steadfast [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Actors, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awards Presentation, Bodyguard Role-Play, Bonus Scenes, Boot Worship, Breakfast in Bed, Character Bleed, Comfort, Consensual Kink, Costume Kink, Deleted Scenes, Dissociation, Engagement Party, Epilogue, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family, Flashbacks, Hand Feeding, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, In Chapter 10, Injury, Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Naked Cuddling, Older Characters, Pancakes, Past Abuse, Regency Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Switching, also past abuse though that's already in the tags, but we'll see flashes of it in Colby's POV, check note on chapter 13 for warnings, dubious because Colby did technically say yes and knowingly consent but...., fun with learning lines, in chapter 5, in chapter 8, meeting the friends, past dub-con, past dubious consent, warnings for chapter 13 include
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19837453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: The extra bits for Character Bleed - probably some deleted scenes, some bonus scenes, maybe some headcanon or thoughts about the sequel...





	1. film review

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly what it says! I wanted someplace to store these, and you all said you might be interested...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first one is the fake film review I wrote for _Steadfast_ over on tumblr - contains some minor spoilers, maybe, though nothing that you've not already seen if you're caught up through chapter 21 and Colby fixing the ending.

**_Steadfast_ Combines History and Heart Into Triumph**

Jillian Poe’s latest directorial effort, _Steadfast_ is at once familiar and unfamiliar: a Regency romance set against the Napoleonic War, full of ballroom scenes and lavish costumes, crackling with politics and passion. It’s (extremely) loosely based on the 1940s novel of the same name, which in turn was based on the historical Will Crawford’s surviving letters and notes, and the romance is real in more than one way—assuming you haven’t been living under a rock, you’ve seen the stories about on-set melodrama: Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli hooking up, getting injured, falling in love, and from all reports being blissfully happy.

Leaving the behind-the-scenes drama aside, the question is: is it a good film?

The answer is unequivocally yes.

It’s more than good. It’s a brave film, in the best ways: not only in telling a historical gay love story—and it is very, very gay; Jillian Poe and her cast don’t shy away from sex scenes—but in the raw emotion and power of the storytelling and the relationship. It’s the kind of film that gets remembered as a landmark: what good filmmaking can do. And it’s worth seeing, not only for the attention to period detail or the reminder that gay people (and Black people, Indian people, and others; we see an impressively diverse London, especially among Will’s Home Office fellow recruits) have always existed in history, but for the sheer emotional experience. _Steadfast_ is a romance, unashamedly so, and it wants you to fall in love, and you will.

The casting and the script are spot-on, to start.

Jillian Poe has her favorite stable of actors, so some familiar faces won’t be a surprise. Colby Kent, also a producer, and given co-writing credit with Ben Rogers, stars as Will Crawford—Rogers and Jillian Poe have independently confirmed that Colby did on-set rewrites, which means most of what we see is likely his. We’ve discussed Colby and the industry and uncredited script work at length back when that news broke, so here I’ll just say that Colby is a better writer than any of us realized—good at knowing and utilizing the source material, but also paring down, choosing the exact right word for each moment, giving his fellow actors dialogue that sounds effortlessly natural. Odds on a Best Adapted Screenplay award or two? Pretty high, I’d say. 

Speaking of Colby Kent, he’s always been quietly excellent on screen, often underrated (that Academy Award loss to Owen Heath should’ve gone the other way, no offense to Owen, who is also generally excellent), and equally capable of adorable clumsiness or aristocratic decadence. You could argue that playing young and wealthy and vulnerable and gay is exactly in his wheelhouse and hardly a stretch, and you might be right—but you would also be wrong.

It’s an award-winning performance. It’s a master class in complex character acting. It’s compelling and dramatic and the core of the film, at least half of it, more on which later.

Will Crawford—in ill health, a natural scientist, the Regency equivalent of a rich kid and only heir to a vast estate—might have come across as weak, or naïve and fragile, or in need of rescue. And Colby Kent’s good at fragile and lovely and desperate. But Will’s also a literal genius, determined to be useful, and willing to do anything—including spycraft and affecting the tide of battle and the fate of nations—to protect the man he loves. Colby Kent never lets us forget that, and the character and the story become richer for it. He’s almost at his best in moments without dialogue—I say _almost_ because Colby, as ever, has flawless timing when delivering lines, both the heartbreaking and the wryly sarcastic. But his eyes and expressions say so much that every close-up could be a page’s worth of emotion-filled speeches, except not, because they’re not necessary. He’ll definitely get the Academy Award nomination; if there’s any justice, he’ll also win. Though, having said that, my personal vote might go to the biggest surprise of the film, just because I was so impressed and delighted. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

The supporting cast is also superb—Leo Whyte, as Jason’s second-in-command, embodies complicated and compassionate loyalty, someone who’d follow his captain into battle and also sympathize with his captain’s difficult love, given his own socially fraught marriage to a poor Irish girl (Kate Fisher, having a marvelous time and some of the funniest lines). John Leigh gives his performance as a conflicted would-be mutineer some delicate nuance—he still admires his captain and ultimately makes a painful personal choice. Jim Whitwell epitomizes workmanlike British gentlemanly acting—though we get a hint of the dirtiness of his profession, and of his sympathy for Stephen and Will, which adds layers to his performance. And young Timothy Hayes is worth watching as Stephen’s favorite optimistic midshipman, with deft comedic timing in the midst of storms and the stalking of a French ship.

The crown jewel of the supporting cast, of course—and the shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor—is Sir Laurence Taylor, notoriously picky about taking on new projects at this point, but here fully committed to his role as Will’s father, the aging Earl of Stonebrook.

It’s easy to say that Sir Laurence is a legend, but sometimes we forget what that means. In this role, we remember. He delivers words that cut right through his on-screen son, and by extension the audience; but his anguish and grief are equally genuine: he’s a man who loved and lost his wife, who doesn’t understand his only son and heir, who clings to the need to protect the family name and estate and future, while faced with the dual truths that his son prefers men to women and in any case might die young—of illness, if not from daring the world in Regency spycraft. The Earl is awful and vicious and cruel to Will—but watching Sir Laurence stand at his son’s bedside, or come to the window and silently watch his son depart for London…those moments will make you hurt for him despite yourself, and it’s a virtuoso piece of acting.

Speaking of brilliant pieces of acting, let’s talk about that biggest (and I don’t mean just the physique, though that can’t be missed) surprise of the film: Jason Mirelli.

First, a confession: I, like quite a few people, felt some skepticism about this casting choice. That’s not to insult action films as such, and Jason Mirelli’s been a consistently reliable action-hero lead. But it’s a very different genre, and Jason’s previous filmography hasn’t, let’s say, exactly indicated much dramatic range. (Having said that, I’ll admit to unironically loving _Saint Nick Steel_. Is it ridiculous? Yes. Is it hilarious absurd so-bad-it’s-amazing fun? Also yes. Does it have Jason Mirelli in an artistically torn shirt chasing terrorists through a shopping mall while protecting small children and wearing a hat that makes him the reincarnated spirit of Christmas? Hell yes it does. We watch it every year.)

If you, like me, were on the fence but willing to be convinced…

I’ll say it right now: Jason Mirelli should be on that Academy Award ballot alongside Colby Kent.

He’s the other half of the heart of this film, and the second he steps down from that carriage in the opening shot, he’s commanding the narrative. He’s captured the physicality of a wartime ship’s captain, but more than that, he’s captured the layers of character. Every motion of those shoulders, those eyes, that jawline, all means something—as do the moments when he chooses not to move and be still. Take the moment when he looks at Will in the morning-after scene, which is just a look and a few beats on camera, but Jason’s able to convey Stephen’s love, and wistful frustration over their different social classes, and genuine affection, and fear about Will’s illness, and surprised joy at having someone to wake up next to. It’s a hell of a role—romance, war, leadership on a ship’s deck, the shock when Will falls gravely ill, the emotion of the ending, which I won’t spoil here—and Jason’s a revelation. He’ll have his pick of roles after this, and he’ll deserve the Oscar nod, though it’s unlikely he’ll win—the Academy likes to reward previous nominees and is notoriously skeptical of popcorn-flick pedigrees, and Jason might need to prove himself once or twice more. But he shouldn’t have to. This is enough, and it’s fantastic to watch.

Part of that epic transformation should be credited to Jillian Poe’s direction. With _Steadfast_ , Poe demonstrates her skill as a director and her ability to handle multiple genres—she started out, you might remember, with lighter romantic-comedy fare, often also with Colby Kent—and her ability to get quality performances from her actors, every single one, every single time. I also wouldn’t be surprised at her picking up a directorial award or two; it’s an ambitious project, and also a labor of love, which shines through in each frame.

The costuming and sets are as plush and attentive to detail as you would expect from an Oscar-bait period piece that’s a Jillian Poe production—that reputation for perfection’s deserved. The score is, if not anything out of the ordinary for a Regency setting, handled with delicacy and love—the music plays into the mood of each scene unobtrusively and expertly.

Fans of the novel might have some minor critiques involving the looseness of the adaptation, in particular the ending, which—let me offer a minor spoiler warning, no detail, but stop reading if you want to know nothing at all—adds a final sequence that provides a happy ending for Stephen and Will. Is it book-accurate? No. But I called _Steadfast_ a brave film, earlier in this review, and this ending is an act of courage: imagining a happy ending for gay people in history, demanding that their love story end well and with joy. (And Colby Kent personally met with the novel’s famously reclusive author, so for all you purists, this change was made with permission.)

Those stories matter. _Steadfast_ as a film matters. Go see it. Fall in love.


	2. deleted not-exactly-sex scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a part of the first draft of chapter 11, in which Colby first came over to Jason's room - I started writing this version and realized it'd got a little TOO dark, and I ended up pulling it back a bit, but I like my writing in a few of these lines, so...here, have this one. They wouldn't've actually had sex this first night, I think, in this version - more healing and recovery would've been important first.

And then Colby was trembling, body stiff in panic and not arousal, saying, “Jason, no—no, I can't—I don’t know—no, wait, just a moment, I don’t know, I’m sorry—”

Jason lurched back. Almost fell over.

“Oh, god—” Colby was shaking all over. “I want to, I do, I don’t mean stop, you can continue, I’m so sorry—I only, for a second—”

“You said no.” He pressed a hand over his mouth. Guilty. Sick. Should’ve known. Colby wanting to didn’t mean Colby was ready to. “No means stop. So we did. You don’t have to apologize.”

“No, no—I mean yes—” Colby squeezed those eyes shut, muttered inaudible words in frustration, opened them. “It was only a moment—the way we were standing, me and you and the bed, and you touching me—I’m fine!”

“I don’t think,” Jason said cautiously, “that that’s true.”

“I _want_ this.” Colby’s eyes were brilliant blue: stormy emotion. “I don’t want to not—simply because I’m so—what if you just—”

“If I just _what?_ ”

“I don’t know, just bend me over your bed and get on with it, you want me and I want you to enjoy it and I’ll feel good about it if you enjoy it and if at least that much works, that’s something—”

“What the _fuck!_ ” Jason slammed a hand down on the bed—nowhere near Colby, he made sure of that, he would never. “What—why would you— _fuck_ no!”

Colby went completely white, framed by forest-curtains, motionless.

“Jesus Christ,” Jason said, horrified. “Colby—Colby, no, no, listen, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t hit you. I would never. God. No. I wouldn’t do—what you said—either. You think I would?”

“I…” Colby might’ve been a ghost of himself, pale and stumbling over normally fluid syllables. “I don’t…”

“I wouldn’t. I’m not gonna—that would be— _fuck_.” He paced a step away, swung back. “You think I’d enjoy that? Hurting you?”

Colby’s chin trembled. “No…”

“If I’m gonna have sex with you, you’re gonna be there with me. Wanting it. Enjoying it with me.” He made himself take a breath, let it out. This wasn’t Colby’s fault. “It’s okay if you can’t. I promise it’s okay. But if you’re not into it, we can’t do this, got it?”

“But…” Colby seemed to be genuinely thinking about this, and slightly confused. The horror lingered: apparently this was something that, in Colby’s head, required thought.

“But,” Colby said again. “I do understand that you—you want me to enjoy it, that’s something you enjoy, but you know that’s not…not a necessity? I mean, other people don’t—if I—I’m not good at sex in any case, you see, so—”

“Colby,” Jason said. Carefully, because otherwise he’d erupt. “Who the fuck told you that?”

Colby hesitated.

“Your ex?”

“Yes…but…even before that, I wasn’t…I talk too much or I do the wrong thing or…it’s easier if I don’t do much, you see…”

“No.” Fingernails clinging to control. “I don’t. I like listening to you talk and I liked you touching my shoulders, because you did that because you wanted to.” Hopefully that’d made sense. “Look. God. Um…” Colby still looked shaken. “Sit down? Please.”

Colby did, immediately, on the side of the bed. Listening to orders.

Jason shut both eyes for a second. Made himself breathe. In and out. “Okay. Can I come over there? I won’t touch you, I’m just gonna sit down on the floor right here.”

“On the floor?” Colby looked down at the rug as if it’d explain, then—in the absence of thick-pile clarification—back at Jason’s face, now lower than his. “But…why?”

“Because I want to talk to you, and I want you to feel…um, safe. Like you can talk. You know.”

“Oh.” Colby thought this over too, and then slid down off the bed, grabbing the fluffy duvet along the way, and ended up on the floor too, back against the bed, knees pulled up, whole body tucked into green-striped blanket-armor but toes inches from Jason’s leg. Down here they were almost the same height.

“Um,” Jason said, afraid to move an atom.

“I do feel safe,” Colby said, “with you. Which is why I came over to your room, of course, because I did. I can do this. We can do this. What do you want to know?”


	3. CelebWatch! on-air transcript, November 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CelebWatch! on-air transcript, November 1, the discussion of the previous night's Halloween festivities and celebrity costumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this written for AGES, I think since I wrote chapter 12 and we found out about Jason's cartoon fantasy series ringtone.

_So let’s jump right in with celebrity Halloween costumes, shall we? The best, the worst, the weirdest, the most unexpected.  
_

_Yeah, let’s dive right in. We’ve got a lot.  
_

_Well, so the best has to be—_

_I mean, Tom Bradshaw dressed as the inventor of the vibrator, historical detail and all, is up there. But as a couple, Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent._

_I haven’t seen those yet!_

_Me either!_

_Oh, just wait._

_So as we were putting this list together, there was a lot of debate in the office about these two and which one came first as far as best, and it’s not like you can separate them, but at the end of the day everyone loves Jason Mirelli’s well-oiled muscles, so, let’s go with that first, and then get to Colby. From Jillian Poe’s private Halloween party…_

_Oooh._

_That is the BEST Zak Starfighter._

_There is…not much to that costume._

_There’s a chest harness. And space boots and a laser pistol._

_And a loincloth._

_And that blond wig._

_Someone had to put oil on those muscles. I volunteer for future oil-related duties._

_Oh, you know who did it for him._

_Yeah, they’re precious._

_Speaking of, you know how Colby Kent’s never really been a feature around here? I mean, he’s the nicest guy ever, he even buys coffee for our camera people, but it’s not like he runs around doing anything scandalous, right?_

_He bakes scones._

_Yeah, I adore the guy, but, like, he leaves parties early and goes book-shopping at weird little independent bookstores on weekends. He’s like the absolute sweetest, he’s wonderful, we love him over here, but there’s not a lot of mileage in fuzzy sweaters and bookshops._

_Yeah, okay, so, we’re all thinking that, right? So they came to Jill’s party as a couple, right? And if Jason’s a fantastic Zak Starfighter, what, hypothetically speaking, would you guess Colby would be?_

_I don’t know, Mystar the wise old wizard or something, all those blue robes and books and a fake beard—_

_You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Are you sure? Because…wait for it…HERE YOU GO._

_OH MY GOD._

_May I present: Colby Kent, Princess Astara._

_No._

_Yes._

_No!_

_That’s photoshopped. Has to be._

_Not even a little bit. Jayden was there and talked to him._

_No._

_That’s…that…_

_That, everyone, is Colby Kent in thigh-high replica rocket boots, a pink sparkly jumpsuit complete with, you’ll notice, that little see-through skirt on top, that very tasteful golden crown, and, yep, also an amazingly detailed prop replica of the Comet Sword on his back. Professional standard._

_Oh my god._

_He looks better in thigh-high boots than I do!_

_That is UNFAIR._

_It actually sort of works in a weird way? Like, he COULD actually be a space princess, and you’d, like, not really believe it, but…I’d totally believe it._

_That’s not even the best part. Jayden, you were there, you talked to Jason._

_Yeah, so I said, holy shit how did you convince him to do this, what even, like, how, and he just grinned at me, all affectionate and sappy and shit, and he said—and I swear this is true—it was Colby’s idea._

_No!_

_I SWEAR._

_But…_

_Here’s some footage of them together. When they walked in and everybody cheered. Colby saw me filming and waved. He's cool with it._

_Awww. Oh, that’s adorable._

_Oh my god they look so happy._

_Oh my god Colby just did a jump into his arms and Jason caught him and kissed him and holy shit I’ve never seen Colby Kent laugh so much in public._

_Or wrap legs around someone’s waist and get kissed like THAT._

_How long do you think Jason can hold him up? Any bets? With those muscles it’s probably, like, all night. ALL night long._

_Think they’ve ever role-played the episode when Zak’s captured by space pirates and Princess Astara runs in with the Comet Sword and rescues him and then the same weird chains show up later on their spaceship in the background with no explanation?_

_Don’t ruin my childhood._

_I’m just saying I bet Jason and Colby noticed that too._

_Okay, they’ve stopped doing the PDA, Jason put him down and they’re talking to Jillian Poe, in that sixteenth-century Queen Elizabeth outfit. Are they officially signed on for that fantasy musical adaptation with her yet? Do we know?_

_Yeah, this is pretty much the end of this clip, but look at the way they’re both smiling._

_And holding hands._

_This is the cutest thing ever and I don’t know how to cope with it._

_I need that little jump and catch moment as a reaction gif._

_I need all of it._

_I need them to star in a live-action remake, like, yesterday._

_I’d watch it._

_We all would, bro. We all would._

_They really do look happy. Look at Colby’s smile._

_Yeah. Yeah, they really do._


	4. alternate piece of chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this was the version of Colby getting hurt that...got a little worse, let's say. He's still *going* to be fine, just...a bit more scary for poor Jason and Jason's heart. I decided it needed trimming back a little in the final version - mostly near the end - but here, have my first draft, if you want to see how my hurt/comfort brain (okay, more hurt in this bit, I'll admit) works, or compare it to the final one. :-)

“Jason—” Andy. Hand on his arm. “That ground’s unstable—”

“Jason, we’re calling help—” That was Jillian. Frightened. Voice wobbling.

Jason shook off the hand. Dove toward the edge. What good were muscles and stunt-man experience if he couldn’t jump down a hill and find blue eyes?

He plunged down the traumatized incline in a shower of rain and rocks and cloying mud. The storm got into his eyes; he shook it away. A rock stabbed his ankle. He ignored it.

Colby lay motionless a few feet away, half in the river, half tangled in dirt. He’d landed on his back, but his head was turned away. He did not stir.

Was his head turned too far? Was that angle too wrong? Was that rock dark with rain or red?

Jason hurled himself through lashing weather. Fell down on both knees in water at Colby’s side.

Colby still didn’t move. Eyes shut. A color eddied out into the river. Crimson. Dyeing the world.

Jason couldn’t breathe. The universe splintered. Colby and red and water and rain—

But Colby was breathing. Chest rising and falling.

Jason, shaking, got himself to inhale too. Matching effort.

He touched Colby’s cheek, hand trembling. He touched Colby’s throat: a pulse, though shocked and fluttering.

He tasted rain and salt. He whispered, “Colby, please…”

Colby, with what seemed to be massive effort, opened eyes a fraction. Didn’t move otherwise. “Jason—what—oh, hell, talking hurts—”

“Shh,” Jason breathed. “Don’t move. Don’t move until I tell you. Where does it hurt? How bad?” Colby Kent didn’t swear. Sweet and charming. Famous for it.

His hand shook, reaching to stroke snarled hair out of Colby’s face. His fingers came away scarlet. “Fuck. Colby. Look at me.”

Colby opened those eyes—they’d slipped shut in pain—but couldn’t seem to focus well.

“Can you—no, don’t move. Let me see.” Too much blood. Pooling under Colby’s head. “Okay. It’s bleeding a lot. But head wounds do that.” True, and also a lie. That wasn’t even the part that raked claws through his chest. The edge of a vicious stone lurked dark under Colby's lower back.

Rain swirled through Colby’s hair. Muddy creek water soaked Jason’s legs. Above, commotion happened. Lots of shouting.

He said, because Colby was awake, because Colby did not like to be touched without warning, because Jason knew that, he knew, “I’m just checking your pulse, okay? I’m going to move your arm. I’m right here. I love you.”

“Love you,” Colby whispered. “It’s fine, it’s—I want you to touch me. Please.” That voice quivered. Fear in the castle ramparts.

Jason smothered his own anguish. Squared shoulders against spine-skewering monsters. Pressed fingers to pulse-point, fluttering in that wrist. Fast, but strong.

He kept his other hand over the welling blood near Colby’s eye. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay. I need you to do something for me, though. Can you move your arms? Your legs? Slowly.”

“Arms…” Colby twitched fingers, turned wrists without taking the left one out of Jason’s grip. “Yes…”

“Legs.”

“I…oh—!”

“Stop moving! _Stop_ moving. What was that?”

“Something’s…not right…not like they’re broken, but my back…something in there…oh, god, Jason, what if—”

Jason felt the shock like a bullet-blow: like the cruel bite of rocks and fate. “No,” he said. “No, you’re going to be fine. I swear. If it hurts you’re feeling something. You can feel something.”

“I feel,” Colby said valiantly, “like it hurts. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” He pulled at an edge of unmuddied costume shirt-collar, tore off a piece, pushed fabric against the head wound. Other hand stabilizing Colby’s head and neck. Rescue techniques. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes you have.” Those wide eyes, blue as bruises, found him and held him pinned: pained and certain and firm in the face of distress. “You’re here. Thank you. You—you _are_ here. Kneeling in a stream. Aren’t you cold?”

That question was so exactly Colby, even bloodied and landslide-splashed; Jason choked on laughter, on tears. “I can handle it. Stunt guy, remember.”

“Did you jump down after me?” Colby started another question after that one; a wince choked off the words.

Jason commanded, “Stay still, don’t worry about me, I’ve got you,” and hoped that could be true. “Jill’s calling help. It shouldn’t take long. Are you feeling cold? Numb?”

“Cold, but…I should think…anyone would…” Colby shut both eyes, breathed in and out, plainly gathered composure into a staff to lean on. “Oh, dear…Jill…I’ve just set back filming horribly, haven’t I?”

“ _You_ didn’t—” No point in having that argument now. Jason yanked off his no longer fluffy parka. Covered Colby as best he could. Trapping heat, as much as possible.

“Won’t you need—”

“I’m wearing more layers, I wasn’t already soaked, and you’re hurt.” And bleeding. And whatever that rock’d done to Colby’s back. To—

No. Not thinking that.

He breathed, “Stay awake. Talk to me.”

“I suspect I talk rather too much…”

“No. No, never. Not ever. I want you to talk. Tell me about dragons and book-hoards and your favorite pens. Tell me about picking locks or making wine or whatever else you know how to do. Talk to me about—Colby?”

“Here…sorry…”

“Stay awake! Stay with me. Look at me.” Please, please. Blood on his hands, on his coat. “Tell me about, um, your favorite cheese types. You like burrata, you said.”

“Oh…most interesting cheese, really…good clothbound cheddar, but the American versions always come out too buttery…sorry, now I think I am a bit cold…”

Jason’s heart threw itself into his throat. He tried rubbing Colby’s hands, an arm. Way too cold. And limp. Not good.

“Is that any warmer?” He tucked a parka-sleeve in more closely. Swore at all rescue workers who hadn’t arrived yet. Some shouting was happening above them; he didn’t look up. “Colby?”

No answer.

“Colby?” He touched Colby’s cheek. Nothing. Colby’s head didn’t move. Eyes shut. Red mingled with rain, running down his face.

Jason said, voice not shaking because he refused to let it, “Colby. Say something.”

Colby didn’t stir.

Jason said, “Colby, please. Please wake up.”

Colby continued not to stir.

Jason said, and his voice did crack this time, and he didn’t care and couldn’t stop it, “Colby. I love you. Talk to me. You have to talk to me. You have to stay awake, stay with me, I’ll make it a fucking order, please, please wake up, please don’t leave me, I love you, please—”

Colby’s eyelashes fluttered.

Jason stumbled over words, broke apart on sobs, desperately cleaned red from Colby’s face, and left his hand there: cradling Colby’s cheek, splashed by hotter drops.

“I’m awake,” Colby murmured. “Only…quite tired…not as cold, I think…”

If Colby had been cold, and wasn’t anymore—wasn’t feeling much anymore—

No. No no no. Jason lay down with him, right there in the stream. Arms around him. Body heat. Hand still trying to stem the flow of blood.

“You’re crying.” Colby’s voice was barely audible. “It’s all right, Jason, I’m all right, I feel warmer…safer…with you…I always do…I do love you, you know. You make me feel…as if I can fly.”

“I love you so much,” Jason got out. “Please, please don’t leave me…”

Hands. New people. Paramedics. Touching him, easing him out of the way. One of them was asking him questions, voice professional but concerned. Jason said, “Colby—” and clung to the closest pale fingers in his. No response.

“Jason,” said the voice again. The arriving hands on him were firm. Other hands were taking Colby away. On a stretcher. A lift. Jason lurched that direction. Couldn’t be unable to touch Colby. Not for a second. “He’s alive. He’s hurt, but he’s alive. We’ve got him. We need you to come with us too, so we can check you over as well, more properly, in hospital.”

“He’s alive…”

“He is. Come along.”

“You said he was alive.”

The paramedic’s eyes softened, hazel-grey with compassion. The rain caught in the ginger of his beard. “He is. I promise you that.”

“Colby,” Jason whispered, when he’d meant to say _thank you_ or _thank god_ or _yes I can stand up on my own_. The only word left in the world was Colby’s name.


	5. wardrobe tests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m changing,” Colby said, “and we’re never talking about this again, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime in the near-ish future, not immediate - after Andy's wedding, maybe one or two films away - but not too far off, either. :-)

“Wow,” Andy said. “You basically look like the world’s most glittery rock-star twink.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Colby turned around in place, surveying this wardrobe test with some distress. Alisha and her costume department assistants watched and made notes, with evident satisfaction. “And I’m very sure I’m not.”

“The world’s most glittery rock-star twink who wants to be scooped up and pounded into someone’s mattress.”

“I’m too old to be that!”

“No you’re not,” Andy said. “ _You_ never will be. Trust me.”

“Jason,” Colby protested. “Help.”

“Ngh,” said Jason, intelligently.

The pants clung. In black leather, Colby’s indecently long legs stretched out for sinful miles. His shirt was hot pink and cut both too low and too high. It flirted with his nipples and exposed his hipbones, above the leather, and glowed under a vintage black velvet jacket, form-fitting, sleeves rolled up. Plus he had on some sort of glittery scarf-accessory, Jason’s brain—and other parts—observed: hanging silver and long and low and carelessly looped. It beckoned eyes along his form like an arrow.

And then there was the hair. Colby’s extremely dyed blond hair. _So_ blond, and recklessly shaggy. It framed his face like a portrait-decoration, gilt-edged and delicious. Eyeliner and mascara—and Nic Skye’s trademark two twinkling pasted-on silver stars over Colby’s left eye—gave him a wide-eyed magical look, quixotic and elfin and glimmering. The illusion and the shimmer flirted and tempted and begged for a rough devouring kiss.

“I am _not_ whatever you said,” Colby said again, amused and dismayed. The pants clung even more as he moved. Resting over those hipbones. Flashing skin. Drawing attention. “Good lord. I never even knew I had a freckle there.”

He also had on platform heels. They held hints of pink and silver glitter, to match.

“Think the scarf’s too much?” Alisha inquired of an assistant. He shook his head vehemently. “Well, perhaps not…we should test the red jacket with the flames on, next, if you’ve got that ready…”

“Oh yes you are,” Andy said to Colby. “You look like you’re just waiting to bat your eyes at the biggest top in the room and get him to shove a hand down those pants. Of course they’d fall right off.”

“Well, Nic Skye would likely appreciate that, so I suppose that’s in character, at least—”

“You look like you either cost five thousand dollars a night or five dollars and a record deal.”

“How many of those comments do you have left? Jason—”

“Um,” Jason got out. That leather was far too tight. Around certain regions. Outlines visible. The room was very hot.

Maybe he should take off some clothes. _Colby’s_ clothes. Or he could leave some of them on. That shimmery silver scarf might have a few uses.

Colby blew a strand of hair out of one eye and regarded the mirror darkly. “I’m not certain about the color. I haven’t been this blond since…since I was a teenager, I was going to say, but in fact I was never this blond even when I _was_ a teenager.”

Andy shrugged. “You’re the one who wrote Nic as blond. Can you act in those pants? You know what, never mind, I can think of quite a few acts you can do in those pants.”

“I’m changing,” Colby said, “and we’re never talking about this again, thank you.”

“Not until you wear it on camera, you mean.”

“This is unfair. Jason gets to wear suits. Jason, are you quite all right?”

“No,” Jason said weakly. He did get to wear suits, late seventies style. As Colby’s—Nic’s—long-suffering manager and eventual lover, he’d be there for pretty much all of Colby’s flamboyant outfits, on stage and off. He wasn’t certain he’d survive.

“See? It’s not working.” Colby tried a sinuous all-over wiggle in front of the mirror: not quite practicing seventies glam rock moves, but checking range of motion. The pants, miraculously, stayed on. Jason couldn’t’ve said whether that was a good miracle or a terrible one.

He managed, “I didn’t say it wasn’t working…”

“I look,” Colby decided, “like the unholy offspring of a Disney prince and David Bowie.”

“Ha.” Andy pointed a finger at him. His wedding ring—still fairly recent, and Jason liked the memory, liked pictures of Colby all dressed up and happy and so pleased to be part of the wedding party, liked some other thoughts that hadn’t quite taken verbal form yet about Colby and rings—caught overhead light and glinted, entertained. “Yours was even better than mine.”

“How did I ever let you talk me into this?”

“You love me,” Andy said. “And you wrote it.”

Colby had. Jason had read and adored the script from word one, and it’d be a perfect film as Andy’s directorial debut: musical, evocative, dramatic, and romantic. Jillian was executive-producing and cheering him on.

The specific characters were fictional, but the story was a love-letter to the birth of glam rock and proto-punk, full of sex and drugs and rock and roll, safety-pins and glitter, a pink drum kit and a haunting English voice caressing the microphone. Andy and Jill had wanted a musical—they’d never made one—and Colby had come up with a harrowing and luscious romance, as Nic exploded into stardom and fell in and out of love and heroin, and turned soaring swooping highs and lows into lyrics and chords. Jason got to be Joe, the manager who steadily calmly picked Nic up and got him to the next show, time and time again, and sat with him after the overdose and loved him, quietly, hopelessly, for years. Colby, lying in morning sunshine in bed beside Jason, had written the scene in which Nic—finally sobering up—awoke one morning in his own flat, saw Joe patiently nodding off in an uncomfortable armchair at his side, and thought: oh.

The realization was simple and clear. Colby’d written it that way. Jason’d made a soft little sound, heart welling up while reading. Love rewarded, seen at last. Yes. Oh, yes.

Colby’s story gave Nic and Joe a happy ending, too. Including a wedding, and sobering-up recovery, and a triumphant new rock album, and a fabulous ecstatic life together, full of music.

Jason had leaned over to scoop Colby into his own arms, for that. He wanted to do so now; he wanted to push Colby up against those full-length mirrors and peel down unfair leather pants. Colby, he thought, would enjoy that: not necessarily with an audience, and with some forewarning of intent, but Colby _definitely_ had a mischievous side and liked Jason’s muscles a hell of a lot, and also thought up possible innuendo way more than those box-office darling blue eyes ever revealed in interviews.

“I think you broke Jason,” Andy observed. “Flame-covered jacket time? Ooh, sequins.”

“I’m still here,” Jason said. “I’m appreciating. I like the scarf.”

Colby started to give him skeptical eyebrows, but took in his expression. Slowly, began to smile. “I rather do as well, I think. I’ll have to experiment with it. Ways to wear it, to use it…in a scene…on camera.”

“You’re not even subtle,” Andy said. “I already texted Adrian about adding it to the spreadsheet.”

“That’s still disturbing!”

“We’ll buy you scarves for Christmas. Or a sex swing.”

“What makes you think we don’t own one? Though now that’s my new favorite nickname for Jason, thank you.” Colby had traded jackets while talking. Alisha and her assistants were taking pictures for later study. Red sequins threw light like stars, and the fit of this one was somehow even tighter. It ought to’ve clashed with the pink shirt, and in fact did, but in a heedless rock-star way. Colby, Jason concluded, could make anything look good.

Or nothing at all. Or maybe only the scarf.

“New trousers?” Alisha said. “Snakeskin?”

Jason nearly whimpered. Colby laughed, took the pants, and ducked behind a screen to change. His voice floated back, “I believe these are even tighter…oh, goodness, _that’s_ visible, isn’t it…same shoes? Or new ones?”

“New ones,” Alisha called back, holding up chunky black boots with vintage zippers; Colby came back out and around and took them. His thighs—and the outline between them—became the only thing anyone looked at.

“I _like_ it,” the nearest assistant said.

“So does your sex swing bread loaf,” Andy said to Colby. “And you like that he likes it. We can all tell how much you like that.”

“Maybe just a _bit_ tight,” Alisha said, and went over to examine the inseam. Colby did not flinch—they’d been here all morning, and he knew her well—but found Jason’s eyes and intangibly held on.

Jason eased a few steps closer. Colby in chunky vintage boots with platform soles, he discovered, was in fact fractionally taller than he was, at the moment. This was mildly disconcerting but mostly a source of abrupt and intense crashing waves of lust.

“Perhaps,” Colby pondered, “I should wear these boots more. Break them in, as it were. Around home.”

Jason made a sound, inadvertently.

“We’ve got a few more looks for you to try.” Alisha straightened up. The assistants held piles of extravagant costume fabric, a violently violet feather boa, a rose-embroidered lounging robe. “We’ll get some pictures of each of those, as well.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Colby agreed, and smiled angelically at Jason.

Back at home—Los Angeles home at the moment, the house they’d picked out together, with the city views and nearness to Jason’s family—Jason shut the door and kicked off shoes. “Coffee okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” Colby took a sip—getting close to the end of that overpriced cinnamon mocha cup—and balanced a bag in the other hand, and paused to smile. “I’m all right, love.”

Love. Colby called him that sometimes. Very English, but also very much about them: Colby didn’t use the term with everyone. Jason’s shoulders straightened with absurd pride. Happened every time. Couldn’t not.

It’d been a long day. So many fittings, so many changes. Hands and pins and tape. Colby really was doing better and had always been good at compartmentalizing—the job, versus the personal—and had smiled and laughed and chatted throughout. Jason had seen the tiny lines around his eyes. Colby still didn’t like being touched all _that_ much.

Well. Other than by Jason himself. That was _excellent_ touching. And lots of it.

They’d taken the car—a ’67 Chevy Impala that Jason’s father had taken home from a successful finale of a television show—because the morning had been California sea-damp, chilly and wet. Jason had previously introduced Colby to his bike, and they liked each other; but he’d wanted to offer comfort and solid enclosure today. He’d guessed it might be tiring, and it had been.

He’d taken the car into a drive-through on the way home. For that coffee, to make Colby smile more.

Colby had left the fitting with that mysterious bag. Jason had noticed it and raised eyebrows. Colby, tucking himself under Jason’s arm, had answered, “I know how you feel about surprises, but I think you’ll like this one; I’ll show you once we’re home,” and had kissed him.

He trusted Colby. Always would. Any surprise would be thoughtful and generous and chosen with care.

“Of course you’re all right,” he said now, “you’re _fine_ ,” and leered exaggeratedly at his other half. “You didn’t bring home the red sequins, did you? I’m still finding sparkles from that damn tub of edible body paint Leo sent.”

“You were the one who wanted to recreate my fanciful photo shoot,” Colby pointed out. “And the towels were sacrificed to a heroic cause. Multiple causes. So many times in one night. But no, I didn’t.”

“Want to try to beat that record?” He’d come over to touch Colby’s cheek, to trace a finger over those lips. Colby did like belonging to him, and Jason liked the belonging, so that was exactly right and good. “Starting right here? Right now?”

“Mmm.” Colby kissed his finger. “I’m not certain you _can_ break that record, but I’m in favor of making the attempt. Though I do have that surprise. Which is in fact related. Stay out here for a moment.”

“Okay,” Jason said obediently. “Want more coffee? A martini? A pumpkin walnut scone?” Colby’d made them yesterday. Jason had made what Colby had described as “astonishing sex noises” and eaten six.

“Oh, anything. I’ll be quick.” Colby kissed him again, and scampered off to the bedroom. Jason watched blond hair flutter, from the back. He was getting used to the color, in theory. He did like the style: nice for tugging and holding and also stroking soothingly when Colby melted against him.

He dropped a hand to his dick. Adjustment necessary through jeans. Even harder than he’d been watching Colby wiggle those hips in snakeskin trousers. The outfits hadn’t allowed any underwear.

He wondered where Colby would like to start. The couch and the oversized cozy chair and even the kitchen bar stools were all viable options. Colby remained a little skittish about being bent over and taken from behind, especially in the kitchen, but they’d figured out that him sitting in Jason’s lap, riding Jason’s cock, worked nicely.

He got out a scone and started more coffee. He could hand-feed Colby. They both enjoyed that. And that plus heartfelt praise and petting always got Colby right down into that floating submissive headspace.

His dick twitched, up and eager.

“Jason?”

Colby. Perfect as ever, with perfect timing. Jason set down a mug, turned, and froze. Dimly he was glad he’d put the mug down first. Would’ve dropped it. Stunned.

“Er,” Colby said. “…surprise?”

Jason couldn’t talk. Could only stare.

Colby had on the skimpy hot pink shirt from the earlier wardrobe fittings, minus the velvet blazer but plus his own black leather jacket, sleeves falling over his hands; he’d lost the clinging leather trousers but put on his black skinny jeans. He’d put on black eyeliner, and had looped the long skinny silver river of scarf around his neck, carelessly loosely tied.

He was barefoot. Jason’s gaze, drifting magnetically up and down, snagged on that detail. Colby’s naked feet, pale and vulnerable against erotic black denim and pink and clinging brilliance.

He couldn’t _not_ stare. The toes, the thighs, the waist—outlined in snug hot pink, oh god—and the lines of Colby’s body. Unzipped tempting black leather. Tight black jeans. Those bare toes. The scarf. A knot.

Colby blushed. Intensely. “I thought…if you liked it, perhaps…I could be _your_ , er, glittery rock-star twink? Only not really, I don’t think there’s any glitter and I probably haven’t done it right.”

“Oh my god,” Jason uttered. That ass. That _waist_. The black and pink and exposed toes and hint of skin between shirt and jeans. The nearly-bare nipples below the low cut of said shirt. The curve of Colby’s hips beckoned.

“I think I’m not terribly good at this.”

“I think you’re perfect at this.” He did. “What were you thinking? Rock star out to pick up a Dom for a night, or a pretty boy at a bar, maybe someone who’d borrow Jill’s high heels and wrap your legs around somebody who wanted to get you on your back? Any of that?”

“Some sort of combination of those?” Colby had kept blushing, but met Jason’s gaze fearlessly. “If I’d gone out to a bar, or a club…if I were what Andy said, er, a…an adorable not-actually-glittery twink looking for someone to, er…”

“Pound you into a bed? Totally.” Jason shifted weight. Loomed nearer, though not too near. “What would you do?”

“Er…” Colby hesitated. Then wrapped a persona around himself; Jason saw the shift, the assumed bravado. “Come right over and flirt with you? So you’d know what I wanted?”

“No,” Jason said. “Not Nic Skye. Just you. If you were the you who, um, somehow got to this bar. What would _you_ do?”

Colby hesitated again. Then dropped Nic and closed those pretty eyes and opened them. And looked up, through eyelashes.

And Jason got weak at the knees.

That was Colby, and wasn’t. That was a role, and wasn’t.

That was Colby in character—flirtatious and sexy and owning those clinging jeans and that barely-a-shirt, shifting that stance, licking those lips—but that was also _Colby_ : sweet and determined and hopeful behind brazenness and eyeliner and a black leather jacket.

This Colby wanted someone, and wasn’t bashful about it; Colby believed that he’d find someone at this bar who’d want him too, who’d be kind and compassionate and equally thrilled about the encounter and the night. This version of Colby wanted to be swept off his feet and taken hard, fucked until he screamed in ecstasy, and he was looking for someone who’d do exactly that, with equal delight shared and given. Blue eyes were honest and transparent in the joy of it, which consequently came across as almost innocent, and hit Jason below the belt with unfair iridescent heat.

He fumbled through, “Oh fuck yes.”

“Like this?” Colby smiled at him, a performance of seduction. Jason groaned aloud. Colby let at least half the performance drop away, becoming less certain, and finished, “I’ve never properly done this. Please tell me if it’s all right.”

Jason, transported and brilliantly in love, breathed, “You’re fantastic.”

“I’m certain I’m not. What would I do if I were, well, doing this? And if I’d just seen you, and I’d like you to be doing _me_.”

“Oh god…”

“Sorry! Was that too obvious, or—”

“Hell no. Say everything you’re thinking. Okay, um. You’ve just seen me. I’ve seen you.” He shifted weight. His dick strained against denim. It liked that idea about taking Colby. As soon as possible would be nice. “If we’d met at, like, a bar or a club or something, and you’d looked at me like that, I’d’ve been over there next to you in a millisecond.”

“How scientifically precise. Drat, should I not comment on—”

“I love you.”

“Ah. All right, then. What would I do?”

“Look back. At me.” He propped elbows on the counter for some support. Colby glanced down, up, directly at Jason. His eyes were very blue.

“Good,” Jason said, hoarsely. “So…”

“Hi,” Colby said, coming over to lounge beside him, one elbow on the countertop too.

“Um. Okay. Hey, I haven’t seen you here before. Can I buy you a drink?” He asked it lightly but with intent. Colby, both in character and in real life, needed dominant but gentle. Assertive, but clearly kind and attentive to reactions. “Anything you want, sweet boy.”

“Really?”

“The way you look right now? Fuck yes.”

“Oh. Well, I do like it. You can say that more. If you’d like, I mean.”

Colby in this mode was fascinating. In character, but also not. Brave and bold, but also not. Himself as projected, but also _himself_ : adorable and uncertain and willing and determined and wistful. It was that last—that sense of hope, that candid wanting—that broke and mended Jason’s heart. “Then you like it. Don’t be _too_ shy about it.”

“Ah.” Colby decided to deploy that demure-but-fascinated up-through-eyelashes gaze again. It was dangerous. Deadly. Dazzling. “Yes, please. Is that right?”

“Are you asking?”

“Mmm…I’m asking what you like. Since we’ve just met.” Colby gave him a lip-lick; a hint of pink tongue stole Jason’s attention. “And obviously you know your way around here.”

“I do.” Jason leaned in. Bulk, breadth, power. But not closing Colby in. Not trapping him. “If you’re in need of some directions.”

“Directions…guidance…” Colby widened eyes at him, guileless and shameless. “Could you assist me? I may be in need of quite a bit of help, tonight. Instructions. As it were.”

“Oh,” Jason murmured, “you want my instructions?” and got even closer. “You want some help right now, sweet boy?”

“I believe,” Colby murmured back, “I could use that, yes.” He did not back away; he even leaned in to match, right up against Jason, a dare. His eyes were extra-blue against the eyeliner; the pale tumble of his hair begged for hands in it. The shirt cried out for tugging up or down, and he looked exactly like someone craving a shove up against a men’s room door, or being flung over someone’s knee, or getting manhandled into someone’s lap and held in place and fucked hard and rough until he came all over himself, moaning.

“I think you _could_ use that,” Jason said. “You need it, don’t you? My…help. You need it so bad it hurts, doesn’t it, just aching with it. I can give you that. What you need.”

Colby’s lips shaped the _oh_ , on an exhale. He nodded. Everything about that nod, about his posture and expression, embodied yearning.

“Come here,” Jason instructed, and reached out and got a grip on, not Colby’s fingers, but one slender wrist. With a squeeze.

He let the grip loosen immediately. Of course.

Colby gasped. In a _good_ way. Good, then.

“Look at you,” Jason said, “wanting it. Looking like that, coming over here, asking for my help…I’ll give it to you. Back room. Now.”

Colby blinked, kept up with the imagined scenario, smiled. “Yes, _please_.”

Their living room kept up too. It didn’t mind being a hypothetical leather-clad back room at a club, the same way it hadn’t minded being a pirate’s deck or a space prince’s throne room. It spread big picture windows and giant sofa-cushions at them in shared exuberance.

Jason—gradually, carefully, but firmly too—backed Colby up against their sofa, scooped him up, set him down to perch on the back. Put a hand on Colby’s hip, then slid it to the bulge in black skinny jeans. Rubbed.

Colby moaned, legs spreading wider. Jason bent and rumbled into his ear, through blond strands, “ _Such_ a sweet boy. Just coming apart for me, just giving it all up for me, the way you want to…the way you came in here looking for someone who could do that, take you the way you need, because you do, don’t you…”

Colby moaned some more, gratifyingly wordless.

“Get on your knees.” Hand on Colby’s head. Not quite pushing, but guiding. Colby wriggled off the sofa and dropped to the floor and gazed up: pleading, lips parted.

Jason shoved open his own jeans and boxers. Drew his cock out: fat and full and shiny in his grip. “This what you want?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Colby pressed a hand against his own arousal, kneeling at Jason’s feet, gazing up. “I want that in my mouth, sir, _please_.”

Jason had his other hand skimming Colby’s cheek; he looked down at smoky eyeliner and messy blond hair and huge blue eyes and begging. Out loud, and devout. Wanting to please. So very much so.

He took a breath, opened his mouth—

“I love the weather,” Colby said, almost but not quite breaking character, the same way Jason nearly had. “I love hearing the rain outside…outside this, er, back room. As it were.” The world wasn’t raining. The clouds hung pewter across Los Angeles, and peeked interestedly into windows, but hadn’t loosened themselves yet. “It’s _good_ weather for this. Electric.”

Jason exhaled. He knew Colby wanted to try this; he knew Colby sometimes needed reassurance about this, about sex, about actually being good at sex. He knew what’d been said and done, what’d been mocked, what’d trampled over lines of comfort and into outright cruelty.

He said, “So you like the weather. It…makes you want this even more. Electric, you said. Sweet boy.” His voice came out scratchy.

Colby’s eyes danced. “Like lightning. Marvelous.”

“I think that’s you,” Jason said, and guided his cock to Colby’s lips, and nudged.

Colby opened that mouth and took him in. Jason ended up dizzy, airless, struck by that same lightning. Colby’s mouth, hot and wet and closing around him. Colby’s eyes, sparkling with want and smudged with decadent black liner, all for him. That damn elfin hair.

He thrust harder than he’d meant to. Colby, more practiced than he’d once been but still working out a few things, choked, but paused to breathe, dove back in, and got back to sucking Jason’s cock. With enthusiasm.

“So good,” Jason said. “So good, just like that, right there—oh, sweetheart, you do know what I like, that’s so clever of you, figuring it out so fast.” Colby did, and had remembered and was employing that knowledge. The right spots, licks, pressure: everything Jason had made encouraging sounds about on previous occasions. “Look at you, loving this. You do, don’t you? So pretty, on your knees with a cock in your mouth.”

Colby paused again, and blushed—pink all across those cheekbones—but made some more happy noises around Jason’s girth, so that was okay.

“You can do that more.” Jason set a hand on his head, in control now: holding Colby, moving him, not too hard but taking over. “Don’t make me come, though. Not that I don’t want to see what you look like when I come all over your pretty face, but not now.”

Colby managed to raise an eyebrow at him. Impressive, that.

“Right now I want to fuck you,” Jason informed him. “Right here in this, um, back room that totally conveniently has lube. Because you need that. That’s what you wanted, showing up here like that. Someone who’ll take you, fill you up, use you to get off…and you’ll get off on that, won’t you? Knowing someone _likes_ fucking you, wanting you, claiming you.”

Colby slid his mouth off Jason’s cock, said, “Oh god…” and sat back on both heels as if physically overcome by the words. He had a hand rubbing his own erection, through jeans; the wet spot was blatant, and his lips were wet too, and his cheeks were pink. “I…that…yes, all right, yes, but…oh dear god.”

“Too much?”

“No…”

“You sure?”

“No, actually. I liked it but…I don’t know. The last bit worked better. About you wanting that too…wanting me…maybe you are just, er, using me, taking me, making it hard and fast…but I’m not just the first body you saw, tonight, it’s not random…I mean, you do want _me_.” Colby sighed. “I’ve confused myself. I do want you. I want you like this. Not as—as tender, not that I don’t want you to be tender, I do, but just…forgetting for a moment that I’m not in fact good at this, except we can’t, because now I’ve derailed us and—”

Jason, given the aid of practice, jumped into the rapids with, “Colby. Look at me.”

Colby’s breath shivered; he did, with a hint of gratitude for the clear command.

“Got it,” Jason said. “You want to be this version of us. For now. But it’s not _im_ personal.” He touched Colby’s cheek again, wove fingers into newly sunbeam-fair hair. “It’s personal. Yeah, we just met, and yeah, we’re both gonna get exactly what we came here for, but it’s not anyone random. I saw you, and you saw me, and I want you because you’re you.”

Colby said, “Oh.”

“Always do. _Any_ version of you.”

“I know,” Colby whispered. “I do. I was—it was only a lot. For a moment. That last bit, though…about me getting off on that, knowing I’m pleasing you, I’m the person you want to…er…bend over and claim…oh, yes, that. That was good.”

“Good.” Jason stroked his hair a bit more, guided Colby closer, rested Colby’s head against his hip. Colby tensed briefly at the first nudge forward, then relaxed, in a sort of surprised all-over softening. He even tucked his face more into Jason’s hip, and curled a hand around Jason’s thigh to hold on, flexible and clinging as a woods-fairy.

Jason petted him, keeping him kneeling there, letting him feel safe in the clinging. Did not move to use Colby’s mouth more, not yet.

He remained mostly dressed, other than enough for what they’d been doing. The clouds coiled and stirred like a promise, like a sauce simmering in their kitchen under their hands, combining into voluptuous flavor. “Still good. I like you like this, y’know.”

“On my knees for you,” Colby said, a bit muffled by Jason’s leg.

“Telling me what you want. How you’re feeling.” He tapped the most reachable ear because it was there, under all the blond. “I want to know. And, honestly, I do get off on that.”

Colby lifted that head—fair strands fell like dandelion-fluff across his face—and looked up, puzzled.

Jason brushed back some of the dandelion-fluff. His arousal hadn’t ebbed; if anything, he’d grown harder. Stiffness jutting out of unfastened jeans. He hadn’t been lying. “I _like_ feeling like I’m taking care of you. Giving you what you need. That feels good for me. I know you know. And if you tell me, I can do that better.” He waited a beat, threw in, “Besides, you know how hot you talking about me fucking you is?”

“Ah…” Colby glanced down. At his own arousal-damp jeans. “I’m opting for yes. All right. Yes. We’re all right, I haven’t derailed anything, and…I would…quite like to be, er, railed? Is that a possible metaphor?”

Jason nearly fell over laughing. He didn’t—he still had Colby wrapped around one leg—but those big blue eyes were laughing too and the rain leapt in for real with a giant rattling boom and the world was perfect, after all.

Colby leaned forward and kissed Jason’s shaft as it bobbed. And then licked, swift and teasing.

“God, I love you.” Jason reached down, coaxed his fabulous clever courageous other half up to standing, put arms around him. “Got an idea.”

“Something we can do here? In this…very convenient club back room, where nobody else’ll come in and interrupt us, because you’re, oh, secretly the owner or something, and so this is all ours, plus there’s a very friendly sofa which looks a lot like the one I picked out, for some reason…”

“Nobody else. I locked the door. And we’ve got matching taste in furniture. Good sign.” He was tugging at Colby’s borrowed scarf while talking: slowly unwinding the low loose knot, drawing fabric across the back of Colby’s neck, coiling up silver intimations. “Do you trust me? Even if we’ve just met.”

“Yes.” Colby watched Jason’s hand, his own scarf, the sensual glide over skin. “I do.”

“Then hold out your hands.”

Colby did. Unhesitatingly.

“Love you,” Jason breathed, then, louder, “You want this, don’t you, sweet boy? Being all mine, spreading those legs for me…I wanted to fuck you the second I saw you. Just looking at you.” Colby shivered very satisfactorily; Jason had begun winding scarf-loops around his wrists. “And you want that too. You want someone who can fuck you the way you need, so hard you’ll feel it for days after, so you’ll know who you belong to, who wants you that much…”

He tucked the end of the scarf back into Colby’s grip. The restraints weren’t even difficult; Colby could wiggle wrists right out of everything, or just let go and let it fall.

Colby, with rainsong washing over the world, gazed at him peacefully. Letting Jason take charge; surrendering by choice, and becoming even more free. That freedom, that flight, rose up in sapphire waves; Colby fell further into submission under Jason’s caress.

“You stay right there,” Jason told him, index finger tapping Colby’s parted lips. And knelt, himself, and undid and peeled down Colby’s skinny jeans: a gift revealed inch by inch, lean long legs against seductive black.

He raised eyebrows at a discovery. “No underwear?”

“I wanted…I want…” Jewels and submission and fairy-story towers, in that accent: dreamy with subspace. “I want you to fuck me. Hard. I wanted to make it…easy…so you could just take me, so I’d be ready for you, please…”

Jason processed that, and then walked fingers back: across that now-bare and very squeezable ass, to the spot where curves met, where Colby wanted him, and—

“Oh my god.”

“I told you I wanted to be ready for you,” Colby explained, hazily squirming against Jason’s fingers. Jason’s fingers, genuinely astounded, moved more. Traced lube and wetness, the base of a plug, firm and thick, stretching Colby open for him…

“You were…you’ve been wearing…the whole time…”

“Oh, no…not during the wardrobe fitting. I wouldn’t, not there.” Colby forgot to be in character, eyes wide as bluebells and fuzzily concerned that Jason not understand this. “Only after we got home. After I changed. Is that…not a bad sort of surprise, perhaps?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I really would like you to fuck me. And I love you.”

Jason teetered between helpless laughter and the overflowing poignant heartbreak of love, for a moment; the billow of it in his chest was so large he thought it might burst. His whole body needed to be wrapped around Colby, needed to be buried inside Colby, needed to feel Colby come apart in pleasure as Jason’s cock drove into him again and again…

He got fingers around the base of the plug. “Easy, you said. Showing up here…at this club…walking around dressed like that, with _this_ in…you really do need it, don’t you? You need someone who’ll take better care of you. Give you what you _obviously_ can’t live without.”

“You,” Colby agreed, as Jason played with him, with the toy. “You saw me, you said…and you wanted to, to take care of me…oh, please, sir…”

Jason put the other hand on Colby’s cock, so nicely long and curved and fat and leaking so much. Squeezed, just a little.

Colby whimpered, shuddering head to toe; he swayed but stayed on his feet.

Jason stroked him exquisitely slow, torturously so. Colby was nearly sobbing with need by the time Jason eased the smooth pink plug free of his body. It’d even nearly matched the shirt, a few shades paler, but god, Colby’d color-coordinated even that, and oh Jason loved him for that ridiculous attention to detail, because Jason loved every single damn piece of him.

He left a finger there, rubbing at the rim, promising. Colby’s hands remained bound; he even still had his jacket on, and that scandalous shirt.

Jason tossed Colby’s jeans aside, lifted him back up, set him back on the back of the couch. Colby murmured something inaudible, whole body easy now, pliant and thoroughly yielded to dominance. Jason kissed him, kissed his neck—Colby’s head tipped, also easy, giving him every last bit of access—and left pinkness, a presence, a reminder.

He also gave in to what he’d been wanting to do since the fitting, and pushed Colby’s shirt down to bare a nipple. It didn’t need much coaxing.

He kissed that too. And sucked a little, and bit. Hard enough to make Colby gasp, and then whimper, collapsed back against Jason’s untiring arm.

Jason grinned. Felt that bubble of joy, of love, of billowing sails and futures. Like the rain, twirling in the sky.

He said, “I’m gonna fuck you now, the way you want. The way you wanted when you showed up here like that, looking for me—” He fit himself between Colby’s thighs; Colby, perched on the back of the couch but mostly held up by Jason, spread bare legs even wider. In that tugged-down pink shirt and leather jacket, pants discarded, he was beautiful and wanton and utterly ripe for the taking; Jason’s t-shirt and shoved-low jeans and muscles stepped in and conquered him.

But Colby wanted to be conquered. Those endless legs wrapped around Jason’s waist; bound hands tangled in Jason’s shirt as Jason pushed, sank into him, sank home.

Colby was already slick and open, and Jason did not pause, only took him in one long glide, all the way in; his balls pressed against Colby’s body, and Colby moaned, “Yes, yes, Jason, that, please,” and Jason growled something wordless and drew back and did it again, only harder. Colby actually shrieked, a cry of pure pleasure. Jason kissed him, not gently, and felt Colby’s cock jerk and dribble more need between their bodies.

The rain sang faster, more urgently, colliding with glass and eaves and ground. Coming together.

Jason moved faster too. The way Colby wanted. Fucking him, slamming into him, taking him—but with arms around Colby, with kisses that became openmouthed panting breaths, with love. Always love: in every shudder of Colby’s name, in every clutch of Colby’s legs around Jason’s waist. In the way their eyes met, Jason drinking in every drop of that sweet oceanic blue.

Jason thrust again, and found the exact right angle; Colby gave that tiny scream of ecstasy again, head falling back. The scarf around his wrists shimmered, argent against fair skin and trapped between them; and Jason groaned and snapped hips forward, knowing Colby’d feel it all: the firework spot being pounded so deep inside, the glide of cock in and out, the heat of Jason’s body and the knowledge that with bound hands Colby could only cling to him and take it and be swept away…

Colby could free himself. Didn’t. Hadn’t. Only hung quivering and poised on Jason’s cock buried inside him.

Jason put that thought into words. Thrust again and demanded, “You want to come like this? You want to come just like this, on my cock, sweet boy? No one touching your pretty dick, your hands all tied up, your body all mine, and you’re right there, aren’t you? You’re gonna come for me, so easy, as easy as _you_ are—for me, though, just for me, nobody else’s, all _mine_ —so come for me, baby, come while I’m fucking you just how you like,” and he suited action to words, at the end.

Colby screamed Jason’s name this time, and did as ordered: jets of white heat spurting from his flushed shiny cock, spilling all over himself and his bound hands and that scarf. He wasn’t quiet after, either, moaning and making broken incoherent noises and clenching and shuddering, muscles rippling around Jason’s whole length.

Jason panted, “Colby—oh god, yeah, just like that, I fucking _love you_ —” and toppled over the edge right after, silver fire streaking down his spine and outward, obscuring his vision, making him gasp and stiffen and quake with it, pouring out release into Colby’s shaking body.

Thunder, with expert timing, applauded.

Jason, wobbly and exhilarated, held onto Colby, steadied Colby, and discovered laughter welling up from his bones.

Colby blinked dazedly, murmured, “I believe that’s _exactly_ everything I like, oh god, Jason, _yes_ ,” and wound hands into Jason’s shirt more tightly; the scarf slithered loose but stayed caught on one wrist, wanting to be part of the cuddles and laughter too.

After a few seconds Jason reluctantly disentangled them—this position was about to get very messy, or messier, as his dick softened and stirred inside Colby, as Colby’s legs got tired and dropped from Jason’s waist—and promptly caught the other half of his heart as the legs in question gave out.

Jason had been expecting this, and—although breathless himself—gathered blue eyes and sweat-damp pale hair and long limbs up in both arms. Taking care of Colby. His heart beamed.

He managed to drop them atop blankets on the couch. The blankets could be washed; they were basically there for this or similar purposes anyway. He also found tissues for clean-up, at least somewhat. He didn’t mind Colby staying a _little_ messy; neither did Colby, usually, liking the feeling of Jason in and on him.

The oncoming evening tasted of water and sex and the coffee he’d brewed but not ever poured. Colby, lying atop him and entwined with him, was a beloved baby-gazelle weight, all legs and arms and those occasional scattered freckles like ink over flawless map-parchment. His eyeliner was irreparable and magical, and his cock was sticky where it nudged Jason’s leg.

Jason glowed with pride. He’d done that. For his Colby.

“My god,” Colby said again after a moment, lifting his head just enough to peek at Jason. He remained partially dressed, disheveled, wearing his leather jacket and that nipple-revealing hot pink shirt but nothing else. Jason had kicked off his own jeans and boxers before picking Colby up; he hadn’t wanted to trip. He’d peeled off his shirt too, just because that felt more balanced somehow. He liked Colby like this, though: tough and vulnerable and mildly kinky all at once. He could keep Colby this way more.

Colby went on, “That…I…that was…I can’t talk. I love you. I love you helping me. Taking care of me. I think I love being yours, like that. Is there coffee? Why do I think there’s coffee?”

“I love that when you say you can’t talk, you mean you can only talk as much as an average human person.” Jason adjusted an arm, draped it more around swimmer’s shoulders. Was glad they’d bought the size of couch Colby’d insisted on, for sharing exactly like this. “I’m serious. I do love that. Also I made coffee for you earlier. That macadamia nut one you like, from Hawaii.”

“Mmm, Hawaii. Good memories.” They were. Colby dropped a kiss on Jason’s collarbone, propped that pointed chin on one hand, smiled. His hair stood up in places and stuck to his face in places. Jason loved the color. Adored it.

Colby added, “We should do that one again. Not Hawaii, I mean. Though that too. I mean this one. Just now. Though I may need to buy a few more scarves.”

They both looked. Silver, white-splashed and pleased about it, glimmered up at them from the floor. Colby said to it, “Sorry about that.”

Jason said, “Nah, it doesn’t mind, it told me so,” and ran a hand through Colby’s hair. “You okay? Just, y’know, checking.”

“Splendid.” Colby stretched out a leg, fit it between Jason’s. “Yours.”

“My sweet boy.”

This earned a blush. “Sometimes, perhaps. Though I was the one seducing you. Good surprise?”

“Totally. Surprise me like that any time. And you are, anyway. Sweet.” Delivered with a kiss, for punctuation. “Was my side okay? Talking to you. What I said.”

“Completely. You do listen to me. I love you. I’m very happy right now.”

“Bet you’d be even more happy with coffee.”

“In a moment. I don’t want either of us to move.” Colby settled his head down under Jason’s hand, on Jason’s chest, a sleepy kitten-nudge into more petting.

Jason grinned at the ceiling. Kneaded the back of Colby’s neck. “Not too rough? Anything I should pay some attention to, some extra care, maybe?”

“Also splendid. We did say we wanted me to feel it, after…I do, and I suspect I will, for a while…it feels good. I feel…well, as if you’ve fucked me. Incontrovertibly. I adore it.” One more roll of thunder underscored that proclamation. “But you can give me a foot-rub later if you’d like. I don’t wear shoes that tall—or that sparkly—that often, and Alisha kept wanting me to walk in them. Which you know, since you were there. And impressed, evidently.”

“I also like it when you actually say fuck,” Jason observed contentedly, and cuddled him closer. “I can rub your feet. I like your feet. I like all your outfits. I like scarves. I kind of want to steal those black leather pants for you to wear here once you’re done with them on camera. You could probably only wear them once. I might have plans. For the pants and you.”

“I…could be convinced to engage in wardrobe thievery. Or simply ask.”

“They’ll give you anything. Also, _I_ totally knew you had that freckle. Right _there_.”

“I honestly never noticed that one! And now everyone will. But the only person who gets to touch me there is you. By the way, I brought up the shoes for a reason.” Rain dwindled, eavesdropping, wanting to hear this. Jason wanted to hear this too.

Colby _did_ surprise him. With playfulness, with delight, with pineapple upside-down cake, with amazingly filthy innuendo that hid in a fairy-prince accent and pretended to be innocent.

Surprises, with Colby, could be good ones. Full of thoughtfulness, and love, and gifts that were purely kind.

“You see,” Colby said, “I did borrow one more thing, because I noticed you looking, though I really did have rather tired feet at the moment, so I didn’t put them on for this, I left them in the bedroom, but that’s fine because we can have me wear them in the future, possibly the near future, even.”

“Maybe. If you’re not too sore. What else did you charm Alisha into handing over?”

“I only told her how effective her choices clearly were, and how good she is at this! And then asked nicely!”

“So of course she said yes. To what?”

“Well…” Colby trailed fingertips over Jason’s chest: not writing anything in particular, only sketching random swirls and loops. “You seemed to quite like the boots. The heavy black ones. With the brass bits, and the zippers, and the, er, height.”

Jason made a sound. It was essentially the same sound he’d made before, and somewhere in the middle was a heartfelt, “Fuck yeah.”

“I’m not certain what specific ideas you had in mind, but I do like trying things with you, so I’m rather excited about possibilities?”

“Me too,” Jason said, “oh hell yeah, me too,” and kissed Colby again, while their storm cheered and their borrowed scarf danced in silver on the floor and a pair of boots conjured up possibilities in their bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one I had written out, so far, as far as bonus scenes, though I have a few other random ideas, so we'll see if they get written! 
> 
> For instance: Jason and Andy's soon-to-be-fiance Adrian actually get along extremely well - Jason gets along well with most people, of course, but this particular conversation goes something like...  
> Jason: "Andy says you once hacked the Pentagon?"   
> Adrian: "I did that one time!... _technically_ I get paid to help prevent, well, me. Cybersecurity consultations."   
> Jason: "Cool, right, yeah. So...you and Andy met Colby's ex, right? Liam?"   
> Adrian: "...I may or may not be the reason he has terrible credit, tax fraud problems, and a smart thermostat that keeps turning itself up and down randomly in his new flat. I mean, I'm not saying it *was* me. And neither are you."   
> Jason, who knows perfectly well that Andy's planning to propose: "I think I love you. Tell Andy if he doesn't marry you right now, on the spot, I will."   
> Andy, looking over from location discussions with Colby: "Oh, well, we had a good run, babe; Colby, guess you and I are gonna have to hook up now."   
> Colby, consideringly: "Yes, fine, fair enough, but will you let me eat treacle tarts in bed?"   
> Andy: "I DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT'S A METAPHOR FOR and also, okay, guess I'll just come over there and kiss my actual boyfriend and you can have your giant cinnamon roll back, thanks."  
> Adrian: "So I'm adding treacle tarts to the food section of the spreadsheet, then?"  
> Jason: "Can I see that sometime?"


	6. Steadfast commentary track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jill and Andy and Jason and Colby try to record a commentary track for _Steadfast_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this super-quickly on tumblr in response to an ask, and wanted to share! The very last bit's new, versus the tumblr version.
> 
> I think there are two more bonus scenes - one George and Laurie, and one that's basically an excuse for Jason/Colby porn with Jason topping from the bottom. :D

There's another commentary track that's more serious and technical, with Jillian and Andy and more of the production team - wardrobe, music, set design, and so on. This one, however, has Jill and Andy and Jason and Colby, and contains these moments...

Andy, about Jason and Leo walking into the Stonewood ball: “This was actually Jason’s audition tape. Obviously not *this*, but the scene he sent to us. You filmed that in a hotel suite, right?”

Jason: “Yeah...this version’s better....”

Jillian: “Colby said he had a good feeling about you. You know, the opposite of the Star Wars line.”

Jason: “THAT’S what that joke was at the screen test?!”

***

Andy: “We had to film this scene right after realizing Jason and Colby literally sing Katy Perry duets when no one’s looking.”

Colby: “I seem to recall you joining in when you found us.”

Andy: “...and let’s talk about the lighting here, and that gorgeous antique bed we’re using as Will’s...”

***

(everyone finds something more technical and less fraught to talk about during the first sex scene in case Colby’s uncomfortable, right up until Colby says, “Jason was so kind after this scene; we really went for it as far as shoving me up against bookshelves--that’s real, right there--and afterward he was so gentle, taking care of me and my bruises,” and everyone exhales and Jason says, “I’ll always take care of you and your bruises,” and there’re suspicious kissing sounds, at which point Andy says loudly, “On the second take you both tripped over each other and got stuck in the library doorway--anyone watching at home, that’s on the gag reel!”)

***

Jillian, watching John Leigh try to start a mutiny: “Oh, yeah, this was the day we found out John couldn’t say ‘mutton’! Take after take...”

Andy: *starts laughing* “Mutton...”

Colby: “Did we miss something?”

Jill: “Well, you two were busy.”

Andy: “If you ever want to hear John scream in despair, if you run into him, shout ‘mutton’ at him.”

Colby, to Jason: “I suspect we should feel sorry for John...”

Andy: “Yeah, he started feeling pretty sheepish.”

***

several minutes later, during a dinner scene:

Jill: *whispers* “...mutton.”

Andy: *dying of laughter*

Jason, to Colby: “This was your writing, your dialogue, too, wasn’t it? Most of the film is, really.”

Colby: “Yes - not all of it, but most. This is me, writing your lines about the toast to England and the people we love and fight for, and I love the way you just barely touch your pocket, right there, with Will’s letter...so subtle, and so lovely. Are Jill and Andy quite all right? They’ve just texted the group chat multiple sheep gifs.”

***

(everyone gets kind of quiet watching Colby-as-Will collapse, and then watching Jason rush to his side and plead with him to stay alive)

***

Colby, at some point: “I’ve still got that pen, Will’s, the one I’m writing with. I asked whether I could have it, and the props department said I could. I fell in love.”

Jason: “Me too.”

Andy: “I could make the obvious joke about you loving Colby’s...pens, but I’m gonna be classy here and instead talk about our actual movie and point out that Colby did like ninety-nine percent of the calligraphy and writing himself, not just on set but for a lot of the props, Will’s notes and journals and everything.”

Colby: “It was fun!”

***

Jill, about Will recovering and being fed by Stephen: “That blancmange pudding thing was hell. We tried doing a period-accurate version and it never looked right on camera and it kept melting...”

Andy: “What did we end up with, do you remember?”

Jill: “Well....there’s a lot of cornstarch in it.”

Colby: “ _Yes_ , there _was_.”

Jill: “Sorry.”

Colby: “Well, I’ve eaten worse. On camera! For a film! Oh god that’s not helping, is it.”

Andy: “No. Tell us more.”

Jason: “I didn’t realize it was that bad. Sorry I had to keep feeding you.”

Colby: “Oh, well...it gave me some ideas about panna cotta, later. And flan. And custard and bread pudding.”

Andy: “There it is! Jill, pay up.”

Colby and Jason: “...why?”

Jill: *sighs* “Andy bet me twenty bucks we wouldn’t get through this without a bread joke or terrible euphemism, and don’t tell me what it’s a euphemism for, bread loaf.”

***

Jill: “I love this moment. Is that weird and evil of me? This moment, right here, Colby getting that news, and that reaction…”

Andy: “God, you make our job so easy. Also, yes, Jill, you’re weird, but not because you like watching Colby be sad and vulnerable and broken. Audiences love that.”

Colby: “It was a bit difficult. Well, it was and it wasn’t. The moment itself was almost easy—just falling into it, all the emotion, all the anguish. I did cry a bit after.”

Jason: “You did? You didn’t tell me that you—”

Colby: “No, you were busy—talking to Leo, I think—and it was only a bit. The release. I knew I hadn’t really lost you. I did want you to hold me, remember?”

Jason: “Yeah. That was nice. That’s _always_ nice.”

*suspicious kissing noises again*

Andy: “Just so you all know, at home, they’re totally making out right now.”

Colby: “We are not!...perhaps a bit.”

***

Jill: “Oh, this ending. God, you’re a good writer. You told me even from the beginning that you thought the ending felt wrong, too. You were right.”

Colby: “Oh, not wrong as much as…not right. Nothing against Ben’s work; it was beautiful writing, and more accurate to the book than my version is. It was only…I felt so tired of seeing the tragic stories, the unhappy gay characters, the loss and grief…I wanted something more. Something brighter.”

Jason: “You’re brilliant. And George loves it. How’re he and Laurie, by the way?”

Colby: “Marvelous, they’re arguing about the proper care of lilacs and how many presents would be too many for baby Vivian, Laurie’s granddaughter, you know, or at least that’s what Laurie’s last email said. We’re invited over sometime soon for tea. Oh, I love this moment, I love Jason coming in like that, I love the emotion of it…this was the first take, that we used, here. We did it again, but I think we all knew we had it.”

Jill: “You did. Amazing.”

Colby: “I also wanted to be…to be happy, I think. I needed to believe in it. Happiness. I was tired and scared and so alone, and I wanted someone somewhere to be happy, and if I could give that to Stephen and Will…”

Jason: “You’re _not_ alone. You’re not. _I’m_ here. And I have both arms and both my arms love you.”

Andy: “We’re here too, come on, you’ve got us _and_ your giant cheese bread over there.”

Jason: “Cheese bread?”

Andy: “You have to admit you were being pretty cheesy.”

Jill: “So _anyway_ we ran over to Italy for this shot, Colby knows people and made a call or two, and this was this gorgeous little island, actual eighteenth-century expatriate British houses, tons of history, and that ocean…”

Colby: “I did love it there. Worth every phone call. I also quite like cheese, as it happens.”

Jason: “I know you do.”

*more suspicious kissing sounds*

Jill: “Guys, don’t make us have to edit this commentary track around your sex noises. Guys? Colby?”

Jason: “…sorry, Jill.”

Colby: “Yes…sorry. We’re just happy.”

Jason: “Very.”

Andy: “Yeah, we can tell.”

Colby: “No, but seriously…I am. We are. We love this film so very much—and thank you to those listening to us ramble about it; we love you as well—and we love doing this and we love happy endings.”

Andy: “And cheese.”

Colby: “And cheese. How do you all feel about fondue? Or grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup? I can cook if you want to come over. I might be quite hungry now.”

Jason: “I’ll buy you something with cinnamon. Or blueberries. On the way home.”


	7. proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason asks a question. Colby says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn't really planned; it just turned up in my head as I was driving home from campus yesterday! There'll still be two more bonus scenes...

“I’m thinking of ordering this book.” Colby, sitting at the kitchen counter, swung a foot, poked at his laptop, peeked over the screen at Jason. Felt his heart soften, as usual. Jason, here in his kitchen—their kitchen. Their house. Assembling pumpkin chili ingredients in the slow cooker for later. Framed by streamers of autumn rainfall and wide windows and the scent of cinnamon-spiced coffee.

That thrill raced down his spine at the sight of those broad shoulders, those competent hands. Always did. Every time.

Jason set down the paprika and turned his way. “Why wouldn’t you? If you want it.” He even came over and leaned down for a kiss, nuzzling reassurance into the corner of Colby’s mouth, the spot under Colby’s jaw, the line of Colby’s throat. “You like books.”

“Mmm…I do. I like you. I like you kissing me. What was I saying?”

“A book. You.” Jason took his hand, playing with his fingers. “Something you want.”

Jason worried, Colby knew. Jason wanted him to know that he could have anything: no need to request approval or permission, no flinching from _dis_ approval or hiding from desires. Jason loved him.

He knew all that. He occasionally thought Jason worried a bit too much, but that was all right; they were working on it. Both sides, together.

The rain leapt and splashed and poured itself merrily down window-glass, painting the world in watercolor magic.

He curled fingers around Jason’s. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” Jason squeezed back. “I know. What book?”

“That gorgeous anniversary edition of the very first Alex Castle steampunk novel…the illustrated one, with the textured cover, that’s out tomorrow…I could order it now and get it in a day…I know I’ve got the paperback and the digital and the author’s preferred text hardcover already, but this one’s so lovely. It’s a work of art.” He nudged the laptop around so Jason could see the art in question. “And it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Authors do like royalties. And I could mention how much I do like this one, enough that I’ve bought a fourth copy, and perhaps that’d prompt even more sales, and make Alex happy?”

Jason looked at him for a moment. The smile warmed deep brown eyes and mountain-range muscles and that craggy nose and the entire silver-and-spice morning.

“What?”

“Nothing. Don’t click that.”

“What? Why not?”

“You sit right there,” Jason said, and went off down the hall in the direction of their bedroom. Colby, mystified but willing, sat. Behaved. Tapped a foot against the bar stool, not impatient but intrigued. The bar stool, intrigued as well, sympathized.

Jason came back. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a blue t-shirt, he filled up the universe with protective happy glee. He was holding a book, and balancing a small discreetly elegant box atop that. “Told you not to order it.”

“Oh! How did you—it’s not out yet!” Colby plunged off the bar stool and dove for creamy thick paper, illustrated steampunk romance, airships and pirates and love under solar sails. He dimly registered Jason tucking the box out of the way, but was preoccupied. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you…oh, you feel marvelous, that texture…you’re magical!”

“Me or the book?”

“Both! How did you manage this?”

Jason shrugged a shoulder. His eyes were fond, adoring, excited; his grin was oddly anticipatory, hands tucked behind his back. “Called around. Said it was for you. Totally worked.”

“Oh, Jason…oh, thank you.” Colby petted his book some more. Looked up. “I would very much like to have all the sex with you now. Splendid weather.”

Jason laughed. “Absolutely. The best. But…um…one more thing first. For you.”

“Oh! More presents? Did you actually buy that one gold-etched cock ring, because I’m in favor if you want me to wear—”

“Oh god,” Jason got out, around more laughter. “Oh, god…no, I didn’t, but I will…no, just…just, oh wow. God, I love you.”

“I know you do. You magically acquired my book.”

“Of course. Anything you want, if I can get it. Um, I had a question for you.”

“You can ask me about anything, you know that—”

“I was gonna do something…not bigger, but more special…” Jason looked at the box. Held it up, between them. “Hadn’t made specific reservations or anything yet, but I was thinking maybe…I’d take you someplace historic, maybe back to that hotel with all the sheep…take you out onto a balcony, maybe, the way Will and Stephen met…and I’d kiss you, and I’d be so nervous—not nervous, exactly, but kinda. Because you’re the writer and I’m not good with words. But I have to ask.”

A question. A plan. That box. Jason’s grin. Colby felt his lips part, felt the flutter of his own inhale, the abrupt trapeze-artist swing of his heart.

They’d talked about getting married, of course—they’d been practically engaged even since that first visit to George Forrest’s home, and they’d enthusiastically celebrated the whole idea—they’d been on the same page as far as wanting it—

Colby himself had even got as far as looking at rings. He had several possibilities saved on the laptop. He hadn’t gone through with making a purchase, not because he had any doubts about himself and Jason but simply because sometimes even now he couldn’t quite believe it.

This was real. They were real. He was loved by Jason, so loved, and he loved Jason, and they’d spend their lives together. Couldn’t be. Could it?

Jason cleared his throat. “I can’t not ask. Right here, right now…you were talking about books and you wanted to make a writer happy and you were smiling and I just…I have to. I have to ask. You’re so damn amazing—you’re everything I want, every morning, every morning just like this. You and me, together.”

Colby breathed, “Jason…”

He was starting to believe it. Trying to. This was himself standing in their kitchen, dressed in pajama pants and a too-large knit jumper because Jason’d fussed over his skin being chilly, laptop cheering from the counter behind him and a book clutched in both hands. He was here with Jason; he was loved, and in love.

Jason opened the box. A circle of dark gold beckoned: not fussy or ostentatious, but calm and heavy and joyful, a symbol and an anchor-point and a promise.

Jason, watching Colby’s face, got down on one knee. In the kitchen. Framed by the living room and big picture windows and opalescent rain. “I love you, Colby Kent. I love the way you love storms and stories and that one cinnamon coffee cake recipe and every kind of weird cheese. I love the way you love characters—you love people, and you always try to make everybody happy, and you make me happy—every day, every minute, on set or on a red carpet or in a museum of penises—”

“That was a brilliant museum,” Colby protested, half laughing, swiping sudden persistent drops out of eyes, “and you had fun too—”

“I did. Because everything’s fun with you.” Jason swallowed hard, still kneeling, holding out the ring. His eyes were bright and brown and rich with emotion. “Before…back when we met…I was kinda lonely and kinda scared and pretty sure I wasn’t good enough. And then you said I was. You looked at me and you wanted to help and you told me I _was_ good enough—on camera, and with you, and _for_ you. You trusted me—you do trust me, and you’re here with me, every damn day, and that’s just—that’s the best thing I’ve ever known. I love sharing fantasy novels and tabletop games and cooking with you, and I love that little sound you make when I pick you up and toss you into bed, and I love this whole life with you, wherever we are, rehearsals and reading your dialogue and filming in Norway in freezing weather and bringing you coffee to warm up your hands. I’ll always find coffee for you. I love you, Colby, and, um, I haven’t actually asked yet, but I meant to, I’m asking, will you marry me?”

“Oh my god,” Colby said, or thought he did—his lips moved, though he wasn’t certain sound emerged—and then, hastily, overflowing, “Oh my god yes. Yes. Yes, I love you, yes, Jason, oh god I don’t know why I’m crying, I—yes, yes, _yes_. Completely.”

Jason surged to both feet, found Colby’s hand—the book landed on the countertop to watch—and encircled Colby’s finger with gold. The ring slid down and nestled into place, a perfect fit.

Jason flung an arm around him. Gathered him close, touched his face, cupped his cheek: thumb smoothing away wetness. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Colby whispered, “so much.” He was gazing at his hand; they both were. Gold caught rainlight and morning pearls, and gave the shimmer back a thousandfold. The weight felt right. Exactly so: himself wearing Jason’s ring. “I…I had looked. At rings. Also. I was thinking, if we could…if you wanted…if this was real…”

“It’s real.” Jason bent, kissed him, reinforced reality with lips, tongue, gentle tender claiming caresses. “It’s real and I love you and you said yes.”

“I did.” He met Jason’s eyes. “We’re getting married.”

“You’re my fiancé.”

“Oh good heavens. I _am_. And you’re mine. My future husband. Er…properly. Officially. I know we’ve been saying it, less officially, ever since—”

“We can have lots of anniversaries.” Jason kissed him more. Colby’s knees got weak. Jason’s arms felt strong. Thunder cheered noisily. “All the anniversaries. I think we should still go back and find that sheep hotel. Vacation. Celebrate. Sound good?”

“Yes,” Colby agreed dreamily, leaning into his shield-wall support and exploring hands and wandering kisses. “Entirely good. Sex first? With me wearing only this ring, obviously.”

“I’ll buy you the cock ring too,” Jason said. “It'll match. But right now, yeah. You, naked, wearing this. Want me to carry you off to bed? Conquering hero, sweeping you off your feet, claiming you as mine, all that?”

“Mmm…yes, the way you do it.” He set his hand on Jason’s chest; watched gold against blue fabric and the firm expanse of strength below. “My knight. My champion. Taking care of me. Giving me what I need. Which is you very deep inside me, please, right now.”

Jason laughed. “Love it when you say things like that. I like being your knight. And sometimes your castle baker. Good at bread, for you.” He’d admitted to not minding the baked-goods nicknames ages ago, only to Colby. He liked that Colby’d said it, way back then, he’d said. “Anything you want.”

“Pumpkin bread later.” Colby put arms around Jason’s neck. “We have rather a lot of pumpkin and I feel like baking. But right this moment I’m thinking of other things you can knead. Or things I need. Take me to bed, please, and make me scream your name. _My_ husband.”

“That’s the plan,” Jason announced, and promptly scooped him up—muscles on delighted display, and Colby wrapped legs around Jason’s waist and fit their bodies together, hot and hard and wanting—and kissed him more, profound and glorious as golden future days, written in screenplays and silver screens and book-gifts and hearts laid bare and true.


	8. raindrops on roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your roses,” George groused, on Sir Laurence Taylor’s doorstep, “need some work. And that wisteria. Fire your staff.”

“Your roses,” George groused, on Sir Laurence Taylor’s doorstep, “need some work. And that wisteria. Fire your staff.”

“What,” Laurie said, “my entire staff?” and took a step back, welcoming him in. “Even the very kind young man who delivers groceries? That seems rather excessive to me.” He did not add that he’d had young Derek make a delivery that very morning. George Forrest, novelist—famous novelist—had crankily emerged from seclusion for a film premiere two months ago; George Forrest was _here_. At his home.

I am, he thought, too old to be anxious about this sort of thing. Or precisely old enough to be delighted. He’s here. He rang me and said he’d be coming over, just like that, in that voice.

Laurie’s chest had experienced a fluttery topsy-turvy feeling at that gruff proclamation, more akin to being a teenager than his grey-haired current age. It did so again now.

He said, “Would you like tea? Or lemonade? Or the end of that splendid port Colby and Jason gifted me as a wrap present, on _Steadfast_? I know it’s a bit early in the day, but then again at this time of life I’ve concluded I may as well enjoy myself.”

George gazed at him, at the house, at the rooms beyond the entryway: light and bright and palatial, hung with the best memories from a storied film career, rich with textured rugs and carved tables and tall windows and lush blue curtains. Laurie himself had dithered over clothing in a frankly ridiculous manner and nearly texted Colby for assistance. He hadn’t, because Colby would likely be busy, no doubt with his loyal knight’s arms encircling him; Jason and Colby were so _good_ together, Laurie decided all over again. So openly unashamedly happy: secure in each other, in their love.

George shifted weight. “You’re not needing to entertain me. Said I’d come up and see about your gardens.” He’d dressed for English weather, sturdy and homespun, and his moustache ruffled white and stiff and enticing; he did not stand awkwardly, because those Royal Navy veteran shoulders refused to be awkward, but something in the crossing of arms suggested some other emotion.

Laurie, who’d opted for casual-but-classic grey trousers and a sunrise-pink knit jumper—Colby’s influence, that; he’d not worn pink much previously, though he’d’ve liked to—shifted weight as well. He’d once upon a time known how to flirt with men as well as women. He knew he had. Or he’d thought so. Years ago.

Very little of that experience would be of use. Decades ago his bisexuality might’ve been an open secret, but it _had_ been technically a secret; he and Alec had fallen in love over unspoken words, sidelong glances, one too many drinks and desperate hands stripping away shirt-buttons in movie-location hotel rooms, stars of the silver screen who could never kiss each other where anyone might see…

He still loved Alec. He always would. The grief of that long-ago sports-car accident hurt, though decades on it’d healed over and toughened up, a scar rather than a freshly bleeding evisceration. And he’d loved others, before and since, of course. A few nameless encounters here and there, more and less discreet, but also more significant. Roger, who’d been such a joy when he’d needed that, and Cleo’s gentle softness, and Elizabeth, who still lived just down the lane and had remained a close friend, with that acerbic wit. Their daughter Catherine, her partner Ashley, and their tiny new daughter Vivian. Laurie adored being a grandfather, and had promptly bought every single item on Ash and Catherine’s baby registry. He’d been wondering how early might be too early for a pony.

He said, “I’m not entertaining you, my dear, I’m being polite and offering tea to a guest. I’ve managed sandwiches—how do you feel about curried chicken salad, or egg and cress, or smoked salmon?—and there’s shortbread as well.” Somehow this came out more like provocation—arguing with George about politeness—than he’d meant.

George lifted an eyebrow. “Stole Colby’s recipe, did you?” But gardener’s boots and worn-steel eyes followed Laurie toward the sitting room, so that was promising.

“I did _not_ ,” Laurie said indignantly—he hadn’t, though he did know Colby’s recipe; they’d compared notes—and found the teapot, which’d been a gift from an actress friend who’d married a royal duke, years ago. “I do my own cooking. I could cook for you, if you’d like, if you’ve never learned.”

What _was_ it about George that prompted those responses? The skepticism? The utter refusal to be impressed by awards—at least the one or two Laurie’d kept on display, the most meaningful, not the ones tucked back on shelves in the study—or expensive upholstery or framed photographs of himself with Clifton Montgomery and Leigh Hope? The delicious aging-but-still-present wiry strength in masculine shoulders, forearms, jawline?

George scowled at him across egg and cress. “Do my own cooking, thank you, Sir Laurence. With my own herb garden, too. Got guests, have you?”

“Not at all. Only you, at the moment. And it’s only me here. And it’s Laurie, please. Why do you ask?”

George tipped a head toward the other end of the sofa.

Laurie looked. Laughed. The children’s picture book beamed up at him: an illustrated short fairytale about two princes falling in love. “Oh, yes. No, you see, I’ve got a granddaughter, and I was buying books for her—I know it’s a bit advanced for her just now, but it won’t be for long—and Colby suggested this one and I’ve ended up reading it twice because it’s so beautiful and heartfelt. I’d meant to wrap it up for her and put it away.”

George sipped tea, looked at him, said nothing. After a moment, opted for, “So you’re living here alone. All this you’ve got, the space, the museum, just for you.”

“My life’s not a museum, thank you.” Laurie picked up a chicken salad sandwich because it was that or meet those sharp eyes, and he didn’t feel like that at the moment. The words’d cut more cleanly than he’d thought words could these days: being judged and dismissed, being thought vain or self-indulgent or demanding more space, as a celebrity, than he deserved.

He drew a breath, let it out. He was too old to be bothered by a famous and brilliant—and disconcertingly attractive—author’s evaluation of his life. Which he’d enjoyed. Every moment, good and bad. All worthwhile. “Every piece means something. I appreciate the stories, and the reminders to remember them. More tea?”

George shook his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Have you heard from Colby and Jason lately? Colby’s dreadful mother has been in the news again. Some sort of international poetry award. I never could stand that woman; we met once at a garden party, some sort of royal honours, and once was quite enough. She seemed the sort of person who’d critique one’s swimming form while one was busy trying not to drown. I hope Colby’s doing well and not paying her any attention whatsoever.”

George said nothing for a moment. Laurie wondered whether mention of royal honours and garden parties’d been over the top. Possibly.

The day extended, grey and smoky. England in a dowager’s dress of clouds. Silk and crystal raindrops. Water on roses. Tea and tradition. Sandwiches and snapshots. A sword—the real one, the hero one, skillfully forged—he’d been gifted from that desert warrior epic, poised and antique on one wall. And an incongruous child’s fantasy about two princes falling in love, which he’d forgot to put away.

George set down tea. Picked up shortbread. Bit, considered, lifted an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“Thank you.”

“Never much use for poetry myself. Good stories, though, that’s something. Action, adventure.” George finished the piece of biscuit. “I’m thinking he’ll be fine. Colby. Got the world’s strongest heart, that boy. And Jason’s a steady one. He’ll be right enough, with that.”

“Oh,” Laurie said, surprised—not at the evaluation of Colby and Jason, with which he agreed, but at the way George offered it. Almost reassuring. Abrupt and grumbly, but delivered like a shoulder-pat: Laurie shouldn’t fret, and they’d all be fine. Right enough. “Yes. Of course he’s wonderful. He and Jason are among the strongest people I’ve ever met; I do admire them, you know.”

“Hmph. You mean that.”

“I do. Would you like to know a secret? It’s not truly a secret, I can tell you, but you can’t tell Colby. Jason rang the other day to ask about my thoughts on jewelers and ring styles. He wants something Colby will love, and he’s got ideas already but he was nervous and wanting to be sure. So that’s likely to be a proposal quite soon, I’d say.”

George laughed. “Guess they’re after making it official, then. About time.”

“Sorry, do you know something I don’t?”

“Well, now,” George mused into tea, “that could cover any number of things, aye? Like proper care of gardens, or the medical profession…”

“So you _don’t_ know anything,” Laurie observed sweetly, “after all.” Plus a sip of tea. For effect.

George smothered what might’ve been a grin in another piece of shortbread. “Didn’t say I didn’t. Those boys’ve been engaged since the first time they showed up to bribe me with cake.”

_“What?”_

“Jason said it. Asking. An accident, it was, at least out loud. Talking about forever, if our Colby wanted that. They said they’d be getting back to that discussion later, but it’d be a yes. Could see it in his eyes.”

“Oh,” Laurie said, “oh, how wonderful, that’s so lovely, of course Jason said it, of course they did, out loud and unafraid,” and then, amused, “ _Our_ Colby, is it?”

George snorted, gulped tea, resurfaced. “Romantic, are you? Should’ve known.”

“Unabashedly, I’m afraid. Even more so these days. Loving someone is the most splendid gift we can give, both them and ourselves, I believe.”

“Surrounded by you lot,” George muttered into his teacup. “Weddings and rings and happily ever afters.”

“Those do matter,” Laurie said. “Don’t tell me you don’t believe that. We’re too old to _not_ believe that.”

“The opposite, I’d say.”

“You let Colby write a happy ending. For Stephen and Will. You approved of it, at the premiere. I could see that you did.”

“Stephen and Will.” George glanced into tea, up at Laurie, over at a small framed shadow-box. Laurie didn’t know whether he’d chosen those memories to look at deliberately; he himself knew without really looking which ones they were. Alec’s folded scarf from _City For Sale_ , in which Laurie’d played the sly underworld gangster to Alec’s jaded detective hero; a snapshot of Alec laughing and golden in the garden of the Santa Monica house that’d been theirs, not posed but offguardedly purely delighted; a meaningful playbill or two; the old key to that house.

Happy endings, he thought. Important. Yes.

And the sadness caught in his throat for a moment, poignant as a future. As futures that might’ve been, and never could be.

But he’d been able to see this world, this future. He’d got to witness Jason and Colby openly proclaiming their commitment and very shortly planning a wedding. He’d joined them on _Steadfast_ and told a story about love.

George, he thought, knew about love. About love, and loss, and the need to remember. A story told—that story, which was so deeply about all of those themes, written by someone who understood. And the dedication of the novel: that mysterious _M_ it’d been written for, so evidently not here with George now.

“I did,” George said, and Laurie returned to the present, batting away cobwebs of time and hope. “Convincing, they were, when they came and found me. All about love. And you. What you did, that premiere. Giving them all that publicity. You planned that, did you?”

“Oh—no, I hadn’t. Not like that. I’d thought—I knew why I’d wanted to be a part of the film, why it mattered so much to me. But I’d not expected…I fell in love as well, on that set.”

Something flickered in George’s expression, a glimpse or a snag. Laurie couldn’t decipher it, and hurried to explain, “No, not like that, not with anyone in particular. With the whole idea of being myself, I suspect. Being truly properly me, for the first time…the way they talked about it all, so open and free, so young and shining, and of course they’ve been through so much, and it _isn’t_ easy, but the ability to know themselves and to own their desires, that way…I loved that. I love that. And so when the question arose, at the premiere…”

“You said it. Let the world know you.”

“Yes,” Laurie said. A pause hovered, then; he wasn’t certain how to fill it. He poured more tea; clouds shuffled feet beyond the tall curtain-draped windows. Sun peeped in, shy as a forest fawn; he attempted, in the quiet, “Would you like anything else? Custard creams, hobnobs, a Viennese whirl?”

“Got a liking for biscuits, have you?”

“Why not? I’ve always quite liked sweets. Rather a curse when it comes to wardrobe fittings, I’m afraid, but as I’ve _almost_ thoroughly retired that’s all right.”

“Movie stars and bonbons. Expect you get those fancy chocolate boxes in every dressing room, too.”

“Not at all. No, I simply quite like nice everyday biscuits, and I buy my own. Though I’ll admit to having standards about good port and good scotch, if that sort of confession would make you happy.”

George pursed lips, took this in, eyed the window. “Your sun’s out.”

“Yes?”

“I should get to doing some work, aye?”

“Work? Oh…yes…”

“Came to see about your garden, didn’t I? Not your biscuits.” George got up, so Laurie did as well. “Where d’you keep your things? Tools. For that.”

“Er…I believe there’s a gardening shed.”

George heaved the sigh of the put-upon. “Garden door?”

Laurie pointed, wordless. George nodded at him and went, pulling gloves out of a pocket. His boots were impressively quiet over thick heavy rugs and honeyed wood floors. The sun, when he opened the door, painted his hair in gold, and fell down across his shoulders like a cloak of light.

Laurie watched him move, felt that tiny old springtime yearning—oh, that trim body, that competence, the light across time-washed hair—under his breastbone, and then sighed and began picking up sandwiches. George’d obviously had enough of his company, likely wouldn’t appreciate being ogled by a sweets-loving actor with no hands-on practical skills, and had almost certainly only come up out of a sense of obligation, given that they’d mentioned it and Colby would like them to be friends.

He rolled up both sleeves and did some washing-up. He did not peek out the window, though the sun was indeed out.

He wandered back into the sitting room, stared at the children’s story, and went and found some colorful paper and a ribbon. Afterward he found his laptop, a marvel of engineering if he’d ever seen one, and ordered three more books by the same author plus a duplicate copy of the first story, reasoning that he ought to have one in the house when Catherine and Ash and Vivian came to visit.

Perhaps he should turn a room into a child’s library. Or a medieval castle.

He spent some time looking up toy swords for small children, and then texting Colby to ask whether Jillian Poe might have any spare _Girls With Swords_ film merchandise hoodies lying about.

Colby responded fifteen minutes later with, _Sorry for the delay, we’re at a museum exhibit on the history of tabletop roleplaying games, it’s fascinating, and yes I think so and I’ll ask Jill right now, is this for Vivian?_ plus a heart. Pink.

Laurie smiled, and had just begun to answer when another text popped up. _Oh! Did George ever stop by? He’d mentioned it to us again, and we told him you’d like it if he did!_

Laurie had to laugh. Colby’s matchmaking was hardly subtle. But misplaced, unfortunately: a Royal Navy veteran who could write the sort of novel that clawed one’s heart to shreds would hardly approve of someone who’d spent a life merely pretending to be a soldier, a spy, a gangster, a prime minister.

He sent back, _He’s wrestling my rosebushes into submission at the moment, thank you._

Dots appeared. Then went away. Then appeared again.

Laurie rapidly typed, _Not a euphemism, dear boy! Honestly, I’m astonished you’ve kept that adorable harmless reputation this long._

_It won’t last much longer if Jason carries on kissing me the way he did at the museum café. All I did was say yes to a photo with the very sweet rainbow-haired barista who got so nervous asking whether I’d mind. Will you tell us what George is doing to your poor neglected…garden? All the details?_

_Nothing to tell, darling, I promise. Go and enjoy your museum exhibit._

_Jill says she does and she’ll send some things your way! And we’ll see you next month for that cast reunion tea party! You should offer George some biscuits. He’s susceptible._ With a winking face, this time. _Love you—from both me and Jason, of course. Have fun with your garden and your custard creams._

 _I love you both even though you’re dreadful influences,_ Laurie sent back, and then heard a sound and looked up.

He set the laptop aside; the garden door’d opened. George’s head popped in. “Busy, are you?”

“No, not as such. Do you need me?”

“Know anything about pruning roses?”

“No?”

“Then no. Busy with what?”

“Gifts for Vivian. Swords. A toy castle. Books. Wondering whether one could paint that upstairs tower room to resemble a medieval fairytale scene. Chatting with Colby about some ideas. They say hello.”

George grunted. “They know I’m here?”

“Was it a secret?”

“No…suppose not. Come and look at this.”

Laurie did, bemusedly. “They’re…smaller.”

“Getting rid of dead branches, see? There, and there…more room to breathe. They’ll grow better, that weight off.” George eyed the tall blue stalks that Laurie was fairly certain were delphiniums, and muttered, “You’re next…”

“Thank you for doing this. I wouldn’t’ve known where to start, and evidently the gardening staff’s not been keeping it up, have they.”

George snorted. “Not the words I’d use.” Dirt smudged his arms above the gloves, and the knees of his sturdy trousers; he looked elemental and vital and real, standing in the garden, scented vaguely of flowers and damp earth. “You’ll be needing better drainage. Could try some work today, but your ground’s wet all through. Might have to come back.”

“Oh…yes, of course.” Back? More? More time together? “Whenever you’d like.”

“Right, then. I’ll just finish up this lot for now.”

“Yes,” Laurie echoed again, and retreated. He no longer quite knew what to think; he knew what he wanted, which was more, yes, please, more of this, whatever it was. But what _was_ it?

He wondered whether George would like some sort of ale or beer or porter after the work. He had not in fact thought to buy beer, though he did have extensive wine and port and scotch collections.

He found that beautifully aged tawny port from Colby and Jason and set it out. He got out sandwiches and biscuits again in case George ended up hungry. He tried to read a bit of a novel, historical, a murder mystery set in the early Middle Ages. The novel was quite good. He couldn’t seem to focus. George’d had those rolled-up sleeves, those taut arms, a hint of sweat at an undone shirt-collar…

Had the room grown warmer? Perhaps it was the sun. Which…had in fact snuck away under clouds again. How odd.

Laurie, pretending very hard to be looking at the weather, observed that George had disappeared. No drops tantalizingly soaking that workmanlike grey shirt. No muscles flexing, digging or wielding tools. Drat.

The shed’s door lay ajar; he assumed George had gone to put items away. Feeling a bit guilty—the man had come to do him a favor—he turned away as new rain darted against the windowpane. He picked up the novel again.

The door opened. Laurie looked up.

George’s head appeared, then one boot. Faded slate-steel eyes regarded polished wood and creamy rugs, then vanished, followed by a pause and a rustle and a grumbling. Laurie, mystified, waited.

George emerged. Shoeless. White socks under rolled-up trousers. Plainly trying not to get dirt on expensive home décor that he equally plainly didn’t personally give a damn about. Laurie’s heart melted.

“Your mansion’s too impractical,” George complained, but that didn’t matter, and Laurie barely heard him, because—

One gardener’s hand shoved a bouquet his way. Roses. Gathered. Messily tied with twine. “Here you go.”

“Oh…” Laurie quite literally forgot words. He put a hand to his chest; his heart was thumping madly. “You…those are…for me?”

George waved them at him. A drop of water slid off a petal. “Your flowers, aren’t they?”

“Oh…yes.”

“Well, and.” The moustache shuffled. “Could’ve asked what you wanted to do with them, I suppose. But you looked like you might be needing flowers. Needing someone to bring them to you. Couldn’t get chocolate, so your roses’ll do.”

“You brought me flowers,” Laurie whispered. No lover ever had. He and Alec had bought other gifts, both large and lavish and small and silly, but somehow never that. He’d been the one to buy them for both his wives; and stage-door bouquets and gifts from agents and studios did not count.

And George had come over and handled his garden and thought of him. Had even tied a bow around stems with that muddy twine.

“I did that.” George had carried on holding them out. “Just thought you’d be the sort’d like that kind of thing. If I tried. Not because you’re some big movie star, massive legend, and all. Not about that. Wouldn’t matter if you weren’t, anyway.”

“…thank you?”

“Just…ah, you know. What you said. You and that romantic nonsense. You and that damn shortbread. Talking about love. Thought you might not mind an old fool taking a chance.”

“I don’t,” Laurie breathed. “I don’t mind, I mean—that is—you’re not an old fool, or if you are so am I—you brought me _flowers_.”

“Don’t you cry on me, now.”

“I’m not,” Laurie protested, blinking rapidly. “I’m…I…I’ve got a vase. Somewhere. A nice one. Crystal.”

“Figured you would,” George said, and their hands met over a roughly gathered bouquet, floppy pink and white blooms nodding eagerly at the touch.

All the thorns had been painstakingly stripped away, Laurie noticed, as they stood at his garden door with the rain pattering down and the scent of growing green worlds in the air.

He said, neither of them moving, George’s hand firm and callused against his, “It’s raining rather a lot now.”

“So it is.”

“So…it…might be a good idea if you stayed for supper, perhaps. Or even the night. If it’s not letting up.”

“Might be,” George said, and the steel of those eyes warmed and softened with the words. “Might be an idea. Keeping you company, in all this house of yours. If you’re needing that too.”

“I am,” Laurie said, “I would like that, if you would, yes, please stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously they're going to end up just moving in together. Also, Laurie will probably get ordained just to perform Colby & Jason's wedding. 
> 
> Also also, George and Colby will end up writing a new historical romance novel together, mostly because Colby (with Jason) drops by and says, "so I've got this idea, and I love it, but I've never actually written a novel, only screenplays, and I've never written the Regency era and you have, so I was wondering what you thought, and here's the beginning, only if you'd like to look at it and give me any advice, of course..." and George is all "NO" and "I'm not even really a writer, just did it for Mikey" but then ends up reading it anyway, and after a while is all, "all right, look, your characters are great, Lord Peter's all stiff and complicated and he's got that tragic past, and Arthur's obviously just what he needs, all nice and perky, and the meeting outside that bookshop is perfect, but then you've got to deal with the class issues, haven't you, and Arthur's need for money, and that's going to complicate any relationship they start, isn't it, so if you want them to go back to that townhouse together it should go like THIS..."
> 
> One more Bonus Scene, I think. Colby and Jason and...well, a lot of sex.


	9. a series of quick snapshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Five~~ seven little snippets from the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a few little pieces I wrote on the plane back from Ireland! Just random stray thoughts, images, things I like thinking about. There'll still be one more proper Jason-and-Colby-sex chapter. :D

1

“You should go and say hello.” Colby, curled up under a knitted blanket on Jason’s sofa, sent a smile Jason’s way: someplace between self-directed wryness and gentle princely encouragement. “They’re your friends. They invited you out.”

“They invited us out.” Jason ran a hand over his future husband’s leg: calf, knee, partway up that thigh. Only over the blanket-folds, not under. “They want to meet you.”

The _they_ in question involved Jason’s old stuntman friends, or at least two of them; Brick and Evan had been the two who’d called and texted during the soul-shattering apocalypse that’d been Colby in the hospital, over in England. Jason had been surprised, then; he’d known he had friends in general, but he’d always tended toward the casual, the hearty, the _let’s grab some beers and congratulate Evan on that awesome rooftop jump in Hong Kong…_

He’d sighed and taken the goodnatured jokes about himself jumping ship, pun intended. First for action-hero starring roles, not stunt work. Then for one particular role. _Steadfast_ , and that period drama awards-bait gay romance. Literary, elegant, dressed up in ballrooms and waistcoats.

He’d figured he’d probably still have those friends, in that same cheerful fist-bumping mock-insult sort of way. He had not expected the hesitant reaching-out on that side, clumsy but wanting to tell him they’d be right there if needed. Brick’s text, which had referred to Colby as “hot English dude” and asked whether they’d hooked up along with asking whether they were okay, had made Colby giggle and then smile, even from a hospital bed, which had earned Jason’s undying gratitude; Evan’s quiet phone call had been more interesting.

Jason had, of course, been better friends with Evan’s older brother. Charlie. Before that accident, and that grief, and that loss—

He’d dealt with that loss. Or he mostly had. In the present, he let himself feel it for a second, only for a second, and let it go.

He and Evan had not previously been the sort of friends who’d call and share floods of emotion. It’d been a clumsy phone call. But heartfelt. Evan had meant every fumbling word about caring if, y’know, Jason, or the guy Jason cared about, got hurt, and if there was anything they needed while Colby recovered, just let him know, right? Jason had said thank you, and had found himself kind of wobbly, in the neighborhood of tears, after getting off the phone.

He’d told them both when he and Colby had landed back in LA, after production had wrapped. And now tonight was happening. Drinks. Meeting up. Local brewery.

He said, “They really do want to get to know you. I’ve kinda talked a lot about you, you know. But I get it if you can’t, tonight. I’ll stay home if you want.” He would.

“No, you should go.” Colby freed a hand from blanket-hugs and wrapped fingers around Jason’s. “I’m all right. And you can’t stay tied to my side permanently, much as I’d like that. And also…the first time you see them should be for you, I think. I’d…complicate things.”

“I like it when you complicate things,” Jason grumbled, and kissed those fingers, each and every one. He knew what Colby meant, but he didn’t entirely enjoy it. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

They’d gone out shopping that morning—just groceries, coffee, everyday little mundanities—at the closest store. Jason, used to his own moderate action-movie level of fame, had expected one, maybe two, stares of recognition; that much generally happened, but mostly people nodded at him and left him and the muscles in peace, and he’d always been able to get errands done with comparative ease.

Having Colby at his side—

Was wonderful. Perfect. Glorious in every way. No question.

It _was_ also complicated. Colby hadn’t been wrong. The complications lurked on at least three levels, and the third was the main reason Jason’s heart kept shivering at the thought of going out and having fun with friends and leaving him in the house by himself.

Colby Kent, adorable A-list star, Hollywood royalty, fandom darling, attracted attention just by existing. Jason’d thought he’d been prepared. He hadn’t been. Not for that hurricane.

Colby’d tried to be polite, at first. To smile when accosted in a cereal aisle amid colorful boxes.

That hadn’t been the worst part.

The insanity’d been bad even for Colby Kent. Colby’d said this level of interest wasn’t normal and would die down; he and Jason were news, however, at the moment. That film-set romance. That hospitalization drama. The revelation of Colby’s script doctor work. _Everyone_ wanted a photo, a comment, a quote.

That still hadn’t been the worst part.

Jason leaned over and rested his forehead on their joined hands, over Colby’s knee. Breathed, “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Colby’s other hand came over to stroke his hair, which was shorter now, trimmed back from Regency naval-captain length. “You took care of us. You got us out of there and back home. You even saved the groceries.”

“I should’ve known.” He couldn’t look up. He’d apologized on first getting Colby home, too. Had rubbed those cold hands and frantically grabbed blankets and babbled words like broken glass in his mouth: sharp as failure. Colby had found a smile for him then as well, shaken as the moment after a California earthquake, and had told him they were both fine. “I shouldn’t’ve asked you to come. Shopping.”

“Oh, no, you know I like it. I like picking out ingredients.” Colby’s hand rested atop Jason’s head. “I really am all right; I’m only tired. I could come out with you tonight, if you’d like.”

“No.” Jason sat up. “I’m not asking you for that. And please don’t do that.”

“Come with you?”

“Make yourself be okay when you’re not.” He squeezed Colby’s hand. “What’d Doctor Priya tell you about that? About letting yourself be not okay, sometimes?”

Colby’s therapist—both of theirs, in fact; they went in together, partly because Colby wanted Jason there and partly because it was genuinely about both of them, negotiating this massive tricky climb—was a massive science fiction geek and a thoroughly patient human being. They’d only seen her properly twice so far, not counting the brief first-meeting chat. Jason had held Colby’s hand a lot, and was trying to work on listening to stories about Colby’s past without wanting to punch someone, and also on carefully noticing and helping with some of those less healthy long-ingrained placating-and-pleasing-others reactions.

He wasn’t sure he was good at it yet. But he was working on it. He’d keep trying. Forever.

Colby sighed. “She said…well, what you’ve just said. That it’s all right to be not all right, especially after being hurt. Healing, like any other kind of healing. I know it’s not easy. I just hate the thought of making your life harder.”

“You’re not.” He squeezed those fingers more. “You don’t. Better. My life. With you.”

The crowd had gathered outside the store entrance. Colby, who might’ve been able to handle that—he’d been pale but resolute, haunted but a damn good actor—had watched the swell with the ghosts of unwelcome touch, unwanted bodies too close, intimate space violated and an ex’s laughter about lack of consent, all present in those wide blue eyes.

The store manager, who did not know those stories, had come up. Had put a hand on Colby’s shoulder: getting attention.

Colby had flinched. Jerked back. Nearly collided with a display of canned beans.

His face had gone pale as cracking ice. Breathing too fast.

He’d stayed on his feet with Jason’s help and his own iron-backbone determination. He’d nodded when spoken to, when they’d been led to the back and an employees-only exit and escape. He’d even dredged up a smile and thanked the girl who’d taken Jason’s keys and brought their car around.

It’d been a master-class in acting. Pure white-hot desperate performance. Jason had been, and remained, in awe.

Colby had held everything together until they’d made it home. Had very slowly sat down on the couch, and then curled up, trembling, going quiet. Jason had asked, heart choking his throat, about the weather. Good for touching him, holding him. Or not.

Colby had said yes. For Jason. No one else. And then had wept: not loud, but soft and broken, as if the tears were inevitable, a devastated universe unable to hold them back, being cradled tenderly in Jason’s arms.

Jason had held him, rubbed his back, murmured reassurance. Promises. Love. Praise. Ridiculous rambling about the new fantasy novel he’d been reading, with the princess and the shapeshifting lady dragon falling in love. He thought Colby would like it; he’d talked about that for a while.

Colby had stopped crying to venture, “I do like dragons…”

“They totally fight Elspeth’s evil uncle and win back her kingdom. And get married.”

“Happy endings…is it difficult? The war?”

“Yeah. Battles, a winter campaign, finding allies, all that. But they win.” He’d kissed the top of Colby’s head lightly. “They win. And they’re happy.”

They’d held onto each other for a while, after that.

Colby said now, “I’m doing better. I’m quite tired, but I feel all right.”

“I know.” He did; he believed those blue eyes when they met his. Colby had tried to apologize to him for falling apart, which stabbed right through Jason’s heart, hearing that voice fracture over _I’m sorry, I know I’m making your life harder, you used to be able to go and buy bread without all this.._.

But Colby had only apologized once, this time. Had listened, damp-eyed and trying hard, when Jason had shaken his head and said _no, it’s not your fault, you didn’t do this, and I’m just glad I can be here, I want to be here, and I love you._ He did love Colby; every word was a truth, etched in bronze and sapphire.

He said again, “I know you are. But we’re not gonna make you try walking on a sprained ankle, okay? Not yet. Not tonight.”

“I don’t want you to not see your friends.”

“But you’d rather stay here with a book.” He scooted closer; Colby wriggled out of the drawn-up ball and down onto the sofa, and spread legs obligingly, letting Jason settle between them. Jason had worried about that, once upon a time, and the weather still wasn’t always right for it—his weight, his bulk, atop Colby’s body—but Colby had said that sometimes it felt good, too. An anchor, a comforting presence, a blanketing shield of love and acceptance and dominance. “I get it.”

“I think you should go.” Colby smiled up at him: stretched out beneath him, unafraid. “Not…perhaps not for too long…I do want you here…but you should see them. Catch up. I’ll lock up and make coffee and read over that script your agent sent.”

“I’m not really interested,” Jason pointed out, “in coming back for another John Kill movie. Even if it is the last one.”

“They’d love to have you back. And…I was thinking…”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never done a proper action film. Starred in…or written…”

“Oh,” Jason announced, dizzy with excitement, with relief, “oh, _hell_ yeah.”

“It’s just a thought.”

“Nope. Makin’ it part of my contract. If they want me back for one more, you’re writing it, and you’re in it. And John gets to be bisexual on camera, and even if he’s seducing people on missions, he’s also falling for, um, the team’s hot new tech wizard. Which is you, obviously.” He thought about this for a minute, and added, “Also I want a bigger trailer. Shared. With you.”

“I like all those ideas,” Colby said. “In fact…I may have an idea. Or two. I’ll need to think about it…but that’d be so fascinating, wouldn’t it, the interpersonal dynamics along with the whole saving the world impossible missions…perhaps there’s a motorcycle chase…oh, and a scene that involves you having to seduce someone while I listen in and try so very hard to be professional, but you know I’m listening and therefore every word is also a flirtation…”

Jason, chest full of contentment, lay atop him and gazed at him, peacefully.

“You’re smiling.”

“I love you. You really want me to go out with the guys, tonight?”

“Yes, I do. Tell them I’ll see them next time, and I’m looking forward to it. I’ll work on this for a bit, and see you in a couple of hours, perhaps?”

“Okay.” Jason kissed him—not hard, but quick and incontrovertible and certain—and sat up. “I’ll go. I’ll come back. I’ll bring you some sort of interesting craft beer to try. I know you liked that barrel-aged vanilla bean mocha stout.”

“I like beer when it’s complex and dark and sweet, I think?”

“I like you.”

“I love you,” Colby told him. “Go have fun.”

Jason went, leaving at least half his heart nestled securely on the sofa with a laptop and a script and freshly-brewed cinnamon-roll coffee. He made sure to lock up, and checked the alarm system; he texted Colby from the driveway, motorcycle purring. Just a heart, to say _I love you_.

 _I adore you,_ Colby answered. _Say hello for me. I’ll be here thinking about you and a shirtless shower scene. No rush, but I’d like some inspiration once you’re home._

Jason laughed, was in love, felt the world billow outward into rightness like the wind in a sail. Took off, and raced the Los Angeles evening to a local craft brewery, him and the bike and Colby in his pocket.

Brick and Evan were already there, beers present but clearly only just collected. They looked up and waved, not exactly uncertainly; Jason waved back, coming over. Brick’s red hair and wall-sized build took up a lot of the table; Evan, more flexible and fantastically precise in close-quarters fight choreography, stopped balancing a chair on two legs and said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jason said, “you, um…oh, hey, I saw that asylum breakout scene, from that superhero show, that was awesome, getting that whole sequence in one long shot, but that wig must’ve been hell?” and sat down.

Evan grinned, said, “It was the worst, seriously, I couldn’t see anything, it was like fighting blind,” and slid an untouched beer his way. “Chocolate stout with chili spice. ’S good. We don’t get to meet your other half?”

This might’ve been a more challenging question—Colby wasn’t a stunt guy, wasn’t one of them, had that reputation as a sweet and fluffy and precious gay film star—but it didn’t land that way. Not quite. Open-minded.

“No…” Jason took a deep breath, let it out. “He’s…not doing great today. It’s okay, he’s fine, it’s just…” He waved a hand. Tried to explain without really explaining. Not his story to share. “He’s been through some, um. Some stuff. His ex. So, um, too many people…it’s not always…um, good.”

Brick and Evan exchanged glances—Jason’s shoulders tensed—and then nodded, in unison. Brick said, “Sorry, bro, anything we can do? You need to head home, maybe rain check on tonight?”

Jason blinked. Clutched his beer. Which they’d bought. For him.

“He seems like a good guy,” Evan said. “From what everybody says. How you talked about him on the phone. We get it if you need to be there.”

“Um,” Jason said. He wondered suddenly what they’d heard, or what they thought they’d heard. Adrian had systematically ruthlessly eliminated every last news blip about Colby’s ex, but the news had existed, at least fleetingly; and the film industry ran on gossip. And Brick and Evan had known he was dating Colby Kent. Would they have looked? Found some of those stories? “Um…that’s…I…thanks. Seriously. Thank you. He said I should, um. Be here. And I want to. Um, maybe not too late? But…I want to hear about the wig. And Brick getting thrown out of a castle window in evil orc makeup, maybe.”

“I was a _well-paid_ evil orc, bro. Plus, good padding. Lots of bulk.”

“Yep,” Evan observed, “old men need all the pads. So, Jason, that wig, right, it was totally tangled and heavy and all over the place, and it kept getting in my eyes, and then there was the take when it got stuck in the chair…”

Jason wrapped hands around the beer, which was indeed good. Let the war story unfold. Let the night sink into his bones, welcome as friends, as unexpected understanding, as Colby happily safely planning shower scenes at home. His life.

He liked it.

2

“I’m just saying,” Leo emphasized, hands waving, “Colby should totally get back up and sing. For us. For me.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jill said, and took the second of Leo’s three tequila shots for herself. “Not that we ever do.”

“You’ve just heard me,” Colby pointed out. “All of us. Together.”

They had. The karaoke bar’d been Leo’s idea. The New York premiere of _Steadfast_ , following the London version, had been a dazzling success; riding the wave of praise and cheers and late-night talk shows and publicity tea parties and filmed visits to Napoleonic War-era ships, they’d tumbled out into city bars and giddy venting of emotions for this evening off. They’d be in Los Angeles the following day; Jason was looking forward to the stop at home before the whirlwind resumed in Japan.

Colby apparently had an enormous Japanese fan base. Jason at this point wasn’t even surprised. Of course everyone loved Colby Kent. How the world worked. Exactly right. As it should be.

“Please,” Leo tried. “For Jason. A love song. You know you want to.”

Colby laughed, shrugged, leaned closer to Jason. In his black leather jacket, eyes sparkling, he was thin and adorable and obviously feeling safe; they had a private room, and the bar was laid-back and welcoming, even for terrible singers. The whole _Steadfast_ group had just gone up and done “Killer Queen” because Leo had somehow been allowed to pick the song; Jason had figured Colby would be done venturing into the spotlight for a while.

“You go,” Andy said to Leo. “We’ll cheer you on.”

“But Colby seriously _can_ sing!”

“He doesn’t,” Jason rumbled, “have to.”

Colby made a small thoughtful noise, perhaps a little tipsy, as if thinking but not ready to speak up; and finished his drink, which had been something complicated involving top-shelf vodka and rosemary and lemon and foam.

Leo widened eyes plaintively at Colby across the table and the various glasses and bottles. “Please?”

Jason opened his mouth to shut that begging down on the spot, before it could escalate.

Colby glanced up at him, over at Leo, and at the stage, where two excitable men were currently shouting their way through a classic rock ballad. Then got a glint in blue eyes that suggested long-ago nights involving borrowed pink high heels and dancing at gay nightclubs.

And _then_ picked up Leo’s last tequila shot, tossed it back, said, “Wait here, darling. Jason, come and be moral support, if you would?” and got up.

Collective mouths dropped open. Empty martini glasses goggled.

“Colby,” Jason said.

Colby grinned at him. “I’m fine. I don’t mind.”

Leo, of all people, said, “You don’t actually have to.”

“Oh, well. Why not?”

Jason could think of lots of reasons, but couldn’t find words.

“I can,” Colby said. “I promise. And it’ll make Leo happy.”

“That’s not a good reason to do anything!”

“ _I_ think it is,” Leo said. “But Jason’s right, much as that hurts to admit.”

“I’ve got something in mind.” Colby gave Jason, and everyone, a sunny smile. Grabbed Jason’s hand. “Come on.”

Jason ended up following Colby over to the stage, and to music; he listened while Colby had a brief discussion with the DJ, picked out a song, waited to go on.

Before he did, Jason finally managed to hiss, “You _don’t_ have to—”

“I know. I rather want to see what everyone thinks, though.”

That was the same sort of playful mood that came up with innuendo during interviews, that batted eyes and got weightlessly flirtatious when comfortable, that liked bright colors when happy and danced with extras on a film set; Jason couldn’t tell him no. “Okay…”

“Trust me.” Colby kissed him: swift, clear, unworried. Then hopped up on stage.

That would be okay, Jason thought. Eyes on him, but nobody nearby. People watching, which was part of the acting profession, but no nearness. No encroaching. Nothing that wouldn’t feel safe.

He’d make sure of that. He’d play security if need be. He straightened up. Prepared to guard Colby. All evil-doers kept at bay.

Colby took a breath. And shifted shoulders, put on a pose, a persona, a performance: suddenly commanding the entire room just by standing still, hand wrapped around a microphone.

Every gaze spun that way. The night held its breath.

The opening note hit.

Jason knew this one; it’d been hugely popular a few years back. The Arctic Monkeys, with that lazily decadent tantalizing melody. _Do I wanna know_ , the lyrics ran. _Do I wanna know…if this feeling flows both ways…there’s this tune I found, it makes me think of you somehow, and I play it on repeat…_

Colby, who had flawless timing and a flawless voice, hit the opening line, coming in. And the whole room froze, spellbound.

Jason had known Colby was good. He hadn’t known Colby was this good.

The voice, of course. Low and warm and kissed by fairytale countries, mostly England but with those hints of other stories too, France and Germany and forests and towers. Wrapping around syllables like a lover, a summoning, a beckoning of languid hands over skin. Colby genuinely could sing, and had picked something perfectly in his range, and every line purred along his tongue.

But it wasn’t just the voice. It was the presence.

Colby knew how to move, how to not move, how to strike a pose between lines; he smiled at the audience, and held a crowded karaoke bar captive with hips and fingertips and the tip of a head. A boy in a black leather jacket, black skinny jeans, and a soft flowing shirt with rainbow-petaled flowers, he captured everyone’s attention; he shifted a boot, tapped a heel, made everyone helplessly follow the motion of his long legs, the rhythm, the beat.

He ran a hand through his hair, trimmed back a bit but still Regency-viscount long and wavy, and everyone’s gazes tracked the gesture as if it’d been a magnet.

Colby on stage knew how to seduce. How to be looked at. How to sing _I'm sorry to interrupt, it's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you_ and make everyone moan a little, imagining those lips on theirs. Slow, and sinful, and unhurried; elegant and deliberate, the leather and velvet edge of rock; and oh everyone fell for him, line after line, second after second…

Leo, Jason was aware, had whipped a phone out and was filming. Of course.

Colby Kent, award-winning actor, knew how to reel in an audience. How to put on a show. Colby being himself, letting himself enjoy this moment, drew everybody close and let them see both the seduction and the shyly honest delight in being, yes, good at this.

Colby smiled, turned, pointed one finger at Jason. On a line about being yours.

The song itself was pensive, weary, tired and hopeful: a bad boy with a wistful heart, an ache over the wavering. Do I want to know; and the answer might be a yes. Maybe, yes, this time. At last.

Colby’s voice murmured _the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day_ , and Colby’s eyes were dancing, brilliant blue and conspiratorial and enjoying the surprise, and Jason loved him so damn much, so much the feeling had to be overflowing, radiating, visible and gold and pink.

Colby finished the song softly, letting his eyes close for a moment; he opened them to look at the room. The emotion hung big and wordless and inexpressible for a second, then crashed into cheers and applause and shouts of “Encore!” like a wave, like an ocean, like a new horizon.

Colby laughed, said into the microphone, “Are you sure, I really don’t want to take up too much of your time, it’s someone else’s turn, isn’t it—” and was promptly drowned out by calls for more. “Well—fine, one more, but only if Jason kisses me first!”

Jason ran up on stage, given permission. Flung arms around his Colby, his star, his other half. Breathed, “You’re fucking amazing.”

“I actually can sing,” Colby said, in a tone that managed to contain an apology without the words. “I know I don’t, much, but I thought that might be all right?”

“More than _all right_ ,” Jason said, “you’re _incredible_ , Jesus, Colby, I love you,” and kissed him, hands sliding into Colby’s hair, lips meeting lips, there on the stage.

Colby kissed him back, warm and happy and certain. Tucked into Jason’s arms, offered to the crowd, “How do you feel about Modern English? ‘I Melt With You,’ perhaps?”

3

Later that night, a knock bounced off their hotel room door. Jason, cuddling Colby in bed—both of them still fully dressed; they’d basically flopped down in post-interview-and-karaoke-bar exhaustion—yelled, “What?”

“It’s me,” said Jill’s voice, muffled by wood.

Colby yawned, lifted his head from Jason’s shoulder, and called over, “We’ll be right there…”

“I’ll get up,” Jason said, and did. “What’s up?”

Jill wandered in, dressed in sweatpants and a fuzzy hoodie. Waved her phone at them. “Just thought you’d want to see this.”

“Hmm?” Colby had gotten up also—Jason hadn’t wanted him to have to—and was stretching, running a hand through fluffy hair, coming over. “Oh good heavens. That’s me. Tonight. Thank you, Leo. I assume he’s the one who posted the video?”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m showing you. Look at the number of hits. Already.”

They looked. Then looked again. Jason tried to process. Nope, too big a number. Couldn’t make sense of it.

“Er…” Colby looked at the number some more. It’d gone up. Continued to. “Is that the sort of thing one refers to as going viral? Which I’ve always thought sounded dreadful. Highly unpleasant.”

“Colby,” Jillian said, “I don’t think you actually understand _just how many hits that is_.”

“Holy shit,” Jason said. In the background his phone made a noise. His sister. Of course. “Holy shit.”

“Should I be doing anything about it?” Colby looked at himself, on Jill’s phone screen. Muted, but clearly having a fantastic time, up on a stage singing, and delighted to be there. Kissing Jason, and laughing, at the end. “Ought I to comment, or anything? Oh, I do look rather happy, don’t I…”

“You do.” Jason wrapped an arm around him. “I love you being happy.”

“I adore you.”

“So,” Jill said brightly, “we’re absolutely doing the musical next, after this!”

4

About two months after what Jason now thought of as the Karaoke Incident—which had led to Colby teasing him with little half-sung snippets of music, which always resulted in Jason pouncing on those blue eyes and sweeping him off to bed in encouragement—the press tour had finished, and they’d retreated to Jason’s LA place for a few days while planning the future. Jason had never been happier, and said so as often as possible, just to make sure Colby knew.

Colby, on this particular morning, had been checking email. Had, a minute ago, grown very still and stared at the phone intently.

Jason said, “Everything okay?” and set down the mug of coffee. Hazelnut dark roast steam drifted over in search of the answer too.

“I believe so…it’s just…rather a surprise.” Colby slid the phone his way. “I don’t even know how to begin to answer.”

Jason looked. Read. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Is this real?”

“Apparently so.”

“They really want you to?”

“Should I say yes?”

“Do you want to?” Jason reread the email. Definitely real. An invitation. The band had seen Colby’s karaoke performance—well, of course; who hadn’t?—and had loved it. They were Colby Kent fans. They’d be on tour soon. Kicking off in London. And if Colby happened to be around, a surprise guest would be welcome, for the show…

“I don’t know!” Colby, wide-eyed, curled a hand around coffee. The coffee did its best to be good emotional support. “I’ve never done anything like this…it’s not as if I’ve got any sort of musical performance experience…I don’t know how to sing on stage!”

“But you want to,” Jason said. None of those words had been an actual protest. “You like the idea. And you’ll be awesome.”

“You think I should?”

“You’re smiling.” He touched the back of Colby’s wrist, tanned fingers over elegant grace. “And you know you’re good. And no, you don’t have to launch a second career as a recording artist or anything, but you like the music and you like thinking about it and I think, if you want to, you should.”

“I really never have done this.” Colby got briefly more nervous, and put his other hand over Jason’s. “Showing off for you or friends…that’s one thing…but a proper concert…”

“A song or two. Not a whole concert. They want you to.”

“Could I?” As Jason drew a breath to answer, Colby added, “I don’t mean whether I can sing for an audience…I think I could…but I don’t know the people involved. Backstage, I mean, the crew and—and crowds, people around, makeup and getting dressed and whatever happens backstage at a rock show…I know I’m doing better but…it might be a lot…but then again if I could have you with me, and some space to breathe…”

“We could give them some conditions.” Jason turned his hand, laced their fingers together. “Bet they’ll understand. And I’ll be there with you.”

“Then…” Colby looked back at the invitation. “Then yes. I think so, yes. With you. In London, next month.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll show you my favorite bookshop,” Colby said, “when we get there,” and squeezed Jason’s hand.

5

Colby Kent Joins Arctic Monkeys For Surprise Encore (“Well,” Colby said, “it’s factual.”)

Colby Kent: New Musical Career? (“Hardly.”)

Arctic Monkeys + Colby Kent Cover “Melt With You” – Listen Now! (“I love your voice,” Jason said.)

From History To Musical: With Multiple Colby Kent Concert Appearances, Rumors Swirl About New Jillian Poe Film (“They’re not wrong.” “How do they know? We’ve only barely started talking about it!”)

Ranked: Jason Mirelli’s Ten Best Expressions While Colby Kent Sings Love Songs (“What the _fuck_.” “Number five is right after I kissed you on stage in Edinburgh, isn’t it? I wonder where they found that one. I’d like a copy.”)

6

Jason, in pale gilt-edged sunshine, felt the Renaissance Faire wash over them. Lute-playing and hay and turkey legs and spices. Leather and ribbons. Knights in armor and the glint of sunshine from cloaks and jewelry. Stories and play in motion, out here in California.

Colby, saucer-eyed and distracted by the world, had already devoured a tankard of spiced mead and some sort of sticky almond candy, and had run over to watch archery demonstrations and juggling and corset-fitting with the eagerness of someone just now learning that other people loved medieval bread recipes too, and would happily dive into conversations with him about it. Jason, being a good solid anchor, held onto those pretty fingers when they slid into his—Colby did need some reassurance, someplace to come back to, amid crowds—and watched him, and smiled.

His heart. His soul. A modern-day prince in not-quite-costume attire, because they hadn’t really wanted to draw attention, though Colby’s shirt did have tiny rainbow dragons on it and he’d so far acquired a new leather belt and a beautifully worked leather-bound journal. Jason, holding things, grinned at the journal. It’d already made Colby happy, so it counted as a friend.

He was also kind of wondering about the corsets. Whether Colby might like one. For future bedroom-related experimentation.

He loved being here too—his Wizards-and-Wyverns-playing soul really wanted to go find the gaming tent, and the Viking encampment was beckoning, and he’d gleefully worn the knight-with-rainbow-armor shirt Colby’d bought him a while ago, under his leather jacket—but even more than that, he loved being here with the man he loved. Who got excited over astrolabes and enthralled by a cheesemonger’s shop. Who, forgetting to be shy or skittish, had plunged into the day with sheer unabashed joy.

Colby at the moment was listening to a cheerful tall man talk about book-binding, asking about techniques, fascinated by processes and manuscripts and literature. A small group had formed, not so much because people’d recognized Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli—though a few of them obviously had, from the expressions and the cameras sneaking out—but because Colby asked thoughtful questions and the man gave happily detailed answers, and the stall was turning into a small educational experience.

Jason felt someone at his elbow. Turned.

The woman from the stall next door, with all the gleaming telescopes and navigational instruments for sale, beamed up at him. Her cloak rustled as she leaned against a post. “Enjoying yourselves?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I mean…yeah. Seriously, yes. It’s been awesome.”

“Roasted chestnut?”

“Oh…thanks.” He nibbled, watched Colby get to play with inks, made a mental note about buying pens and colors and everything that’d make his calligrapher other half happy, and also supporting the man selling said pens and ink, which’d provided that happiness. Jason’d buy the whole damn stall just for that. “Any idea how much that book is? The one with all the hand-drawn maps.” Colby’d been looking at it. Jason liked it too. He liked maps and fantasy lands. Always had, always would.

“A fair amount, since that’s one of Stephen’s best display pieces, but not a problem for you, I’m guessing.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “He’ll be willing to bargain. Steve loves people who love book-craft, and your prince over there definitely does.”

“You know who we are,” Jason said. In more ways than one. Colby _was_ his prince; Jason was a knight; that was and always would be that.

“I do, and so do most of us, but we figured you didn’t want too much attention.” She shrugged. “You’re here because you want to be here, you get the love, and we like that. So you’re us, now. Faire folk.”

“Adopted,” Jason said, amused. “Okay. He’ll like that. Me too.”

They watched Colby for a minute or so, in silence. A few other costumed people—actual Faire people, some with fencer’s swords—had maneuvered themselves between Colby’s calligraphy practice and any fan-held cameras, Jason observed. They were also keeping a tactful amount of distance firmly in place: nobody, despite close quarters, was touching Colby. Jason himself was only a step away, the other side of the desk; Colby glanced up and waved and said, “Jason, come look at this, it’s ink made with wine!”

“Yep,” said the woman, following his gaze. “We take care of our people.” When she met Jason’s eyes, that wealth of sympathy lingered, warm as honey. She must’ve seen some of those stories about Colby and Colby’s ex and Colby having that near-panic attack in a too-crowded grocery store, he understood; he knew in that same heartbeat that she wouldn’t ask for details, and she didn’t, saying nothing more.

He exhaled. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Her grin, tossed up his way, was impish. “You go let your young man show you all about ink, now. Have fun.”

“We will,” Jason told her, “we are, and we’re honored, my lady,” and bowed; she laughed, and he went over to join Colby, balancing a journal and contemplating buying an astrolabe and a book and a corset and some dice, letting the blue of Colby’s eyes sweep him into delight across a hand-lettered page.

7

Rumor: Colby Kent Writing Next John Kill Sequel

Jason Mirelli Considering Return to John Kill "If Conditions Are Right”

Confirmed: Colby Kent Signs On To Write, Co-Star In Untitled John Kill Sequel Project

John Kills Heterosexuality? Rumors Heat Up About New Film’s Romance

Unconfirmed: New “Kill Girl” To Be Male? Colby Kent Spotted In Tuxedo On Set

Jason Mirelli On Action-Hero Bisexuality: “It’s about time"

Colby Kent’s Secret John Kill Character: What We Know (And Don’t Know)

Exclusive: Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli On Sharing The Screen—And Shattering Stereotypes

Jason Mirelli Teases Epic Thrills And Epic Romance: “It’s everything we wanted it to be”

Ten Times Jason Mirelli Was The Most Romantic (#10: that time he couldn’t talk about the upcoming John Kill movie without mentioning Colby or Colby’s scriptwriting talents or Colby’s costuming choices (distracting, apparently!) basically every other word)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two short pieces I might still write but haven't had a chance to yet (aside from the Colby-on-top sex scene bonus chapter which is definitely happening):
> 
> 1) Colby actually meeting Jason's friends, probably in a less public place, like a barbecue at someone's house or something (it goes really well! Jason's a little nervous - of course everyone involved is Good People, but...Colby and strangers, especially large muscular strangers...Colby maybe not having a ton in common with Jason's friends...Jason himself actually physically, y'know, kissing a guy in front of the stunt guys, which, yeah, they theoretically know, but maybe it'll be weird...! But Colby hops off the back of Jason's bike and smiles and asks a ton of appreciative questions about stunt work and is learning to like good beer, and Jason's friends are good at being chill and also being aware of bodies and physicality, and they end up getting along almost _unnervingly well..._ )
> 
> 2) Jason buying that corset. Colby in a corset, in the bedroom. Yep.


	10. awards and rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wins an award. Colby has some plans for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some switching? :D

Colby, settled at Jason’s side in the convention center, put on the public-display sort of smile for a camera. Waved—Jason glanced over—and tucked himself more fully under Jason’s sheltering tree-trunk arm. The Audience Choice Awards carried on happening, up on stage. The Best Villain category winner thanked everyone and demonstrated her witch’s laugh, just for fun.

Jason shifted weight. Visibly prepared to play bodyguard if need be. “You doing okay?” His shirt strained across muscles; his eyes became Colby’s center, deep and dark and brown as autumn.

“Mostly. I’m all right with you beside me.” He was.

The room felt a bit too crowded—seats crammed close together, lots of bodies, lots of talking—but he had Jillian on his other side, and he had Jason; he’d been honest about the _mostly_ answer. He hadn’t enjoyed the red carpet and the flash-bulbs and the hands that, kindly meant, had reached out to steer celebrities along to seats. He had tried not to flinch. So much touching.

But here, close to the stage, surrounded by secure and faithful love, he’d relaxed somewhat.

The seating wasn’t an accident. Odds-on winners tended to be closer. Easy to run up the steps. Colby and Jason had already been up once.

Best Kiss, Colby thought; and couldn’t not smile. Definitely. Well done, audience. Good voting.

“Should I ask what you’re thinking?” Jason leaned in; his voice traced Colby’s ear, deep and rumbling, and sent a shiver right down Colby’s spine. “About me kissing you up on that stage? Or—the alternate-universe version, where I maybe did more than kiss you, maybe put a hand on you and told you to get yourself off right there, putting on a show, being looked at?”

The fantasy was purely that, a fantasy; Jason wouldn’t, and Colby wasn’t truly an exhibitionist. Not that much, anyway. But he liked the imagined scenario: Jason claiming him, possessing him, wanting him, up on stage in front of everyone. Being proud of him and making him fly.

He murmured back, “Show me what you would’ve done, once we get home…” Jason nibbled his ear in agreement.

The comedian host said something, on stage. A joke. Ending with, “…you two already won Best Kiss, you don’t need to keep proving it, not that I’m complaining!”

“Oh god,” Colby said, mortified, and knew his cheeks had gone pink. Jason, unembarrassed, dropped a kiss at the corner of his mouth, and cuddled him some more.

The show went on. Another category, another name called.

He and Jason were both up for Favorite Actor, for _Steadfast_. Colby had mental fingers crossed for Jason. To Jason’s shock, they’d both been nominated for several other prestigious awards, at other ceremonies. In London, in New York, and here in Hollywood. Lots of recognition. _Lots_ of praise.

Colby, to his own mild embarrassment, had taken home several of those Best Actor and Best Performance awards already, plus a Best Screenplay award or two, to add to his collection from previous years and other films. He’d treasure the screenplay awards, because he loved this film and his work on it, and it meant so very much, everything personal and professional that he’d found and wanted and discovered that he _could_ want. He had felt a bit bad about the others.

He’d tried to apologize to Jason, who kept losing to him. Jason had just snickered and said, “Look, you know how many times I’ve been in that kind of company? Like none, ever, seriously, you think they give those awards out to John Kill or Saint Nick Steel? I still can’t believe my name’s even up there. And also what’d we say about you and unnecessary apologies? Weather okay with me spanking you for it, today?”

Colby, recalling that now, felt the temperature rise. Himself with pants pulled down, draped over Jason’s lap, backside being warmed by those broad hands…not to hurt, never to hurt, but just enough to be a reminder, to make them both tingle with it…

He cleared his throat. Crossed his legs. Jason kept the arm around him, maybe somewhat tighter.

He truly did want Jason to win. He was proud of himself and his own performance, but Jason was so good and so brilliant and so much more capable than the industry had previously known. This one was the audience vote; audiences liked Colby Kent, adorable wide-eyed precocious gay sweetheart, but audiences also loved Jason Mirelli’s muscles and nice-guy action-hero persona. Colby leaned into Jason’s bulwark, and felt arousal ebb into a larger more diffuse emotion, domestic and centered.

He wondered idly how sturdy the seams at the arms of Jason’s shirt might be. They appeared rather under siege.

The Audience Choice Awards weren’t terribly formal; neither of them’d bothered with suits. Jason had on nice dark blue pants and the poor beleaguered shirt in question, a lovely forest green that suited his eyes and complexion; he’d unbuttoned it just enough to tempt Colby into wanting to lick his neck, and had rolled up sleeves, baring powerful forearms. Colby had very nearly climbed into his lap in the limo.

He himself had also opted for nice but comfortable. Fitted dark trousers, and a lighter green shirt, not the button-down type but silky and clinging, in a gorgeous shade of pale celadon, like sea-foam in spring. He’d thrown on his black leather jacket and a new pair of boots, which he’d utterly fallen in love with. They had a very slight heel and luscious dark pink brocade inlay along the outside, among the black, and he did love color and prettiness and also the way Jason had stared at his feet and legs. Between these boots and previous footwear-related encounters, Colby was starting to wonder whether his future husband had a heretofore undiscovered boot-related kink. He did not mind in the least if so.

Jason trailed fingertips along his arm. “Feel like picking up another weirdly-shaped statue?”

“It won’t necessarily be me. You know it won’t.”

“Yeah, ’cause you haven’t won _all_ the things so far.” Love and pride flashed along Jason’s tone. “The way you should.”

Jillian leaned over. “If you two would stop talking, you’d know you’re up next.”

“Sorry!” Colby whispered back—Jason tapped fingers over his arm again—and paid more attention. Favorite Actor. Coming up. Near the end of the night, now.

The presenters—Jim Whitwell, one of them, which was a nice touch; Jim was beaming, and the teenage actress who’d be playing his daughter in his next film looked positively thrilled to be on stage—read out names. Owen Heath, of course. Matt Grant. Colby himself, with a clip of him as Will standing dramatically in the rain. He felt Jason wince; that day had ended in a landslide and bruises and Colby in hospital. Jason hated that memory, he knew.

He reached over and took Jason’s spare hand. Laced their fingers together.

Jason’s name came up. The scene they’d chosen was him and Colby in Stephen and Will’s first real fight, explosive with love. Jason’s passion and fear and furious protectiveness crackled across the screen.

Colby took his hand out of Jason’s just to applaud. Jason rolled eyes.

“…and the Audience’s Choice for Favorite Actor,” Jim announced, practically bouncing up and down, “is Jason Mirelli in _Steadfast_!”

Jason said, to Colby, “Of course it’s you, go on up,” and Colby hissed, “He said _your_ name, it’s you, not me, go on, go accept it!” and Jason said, “Wait, hang on, I—was that—he said—”

“Yes! Go!”

Jason stared at Jim, then at Colby, then at Jill applauding vigorously next to him. Comprehension sank in, though not completely. “Colby—”

“I love you,” Colby said. “I love you.”

Jason touched his cheek, cupped his face, asked the question with eyes and eyebrows; Jason knew about consideration and gentleness and the stress of the evening. But Colby just now could’ve jumped up and down and hugged the entire voting audience. He tried to shout the yes with his own expression; Jason grinned, and dove in, and kissed him.

Thoroughly. Publicly. With tongue. And hands cradling Colby’s head, sliding up to land in his hair.

“Jason,” Jim called from the stage, “that’s not an acceptance speech!”

Jason began laughing, dazed, from sheer wonder. Colby gave him a little push. “Go on.”

Jason went, and endeared himself to everyone watching by jumping up on stage—stunt-man muscles evidently too giddy for stairs—and throwing arms around Jim and saying, “Thank you!”

The whole room chuckled, adored him, applauded. Jason took the shiny glass spike and looked at it as if amazed such a thing existed. His hands were large and careful. “Um…oh, wow…okay, so. Um, I know we’ve all heard the line about not writing a speech, not expecting to win…but the thing is, I really wasn’t.”

Everyone laughed more, loving him and approving of self-deprecating lack of arrogance. Colby cheered. Loudly.

“Look,” Jason said, “I _really_ wasn’t, because, well, you all heard those names. Owen, Matt…and Colby. Of course. And I—I kind of feel like this belongs to him, because he’s so incredible—”

“ _You’re_ incredible!” Jill yelled from their seats, audible enough to get picked up by microphones. Another wave of cheering swept the room.

Jason blushed, big and proud of himself and bashful about it. “Maybe it’s both of ours. Because I couldn’t’ve been that good without someone just as good next to me. On camera, off camera, sharing my life. Writing the words we all love. And I love him so damn much. And—and I should say thank you, shit, sorry, that was supposed to be the point! Thank you to our cast and our crew and everyone who made _Steadfast_ possible. To Jill and Andy for believing in me. And George for writing the novel in the first place. And you guys, the audience, for liking us so much. For listening to our story, about two men loving each other, and finding a happy ending. And Colby…I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for letting me share your happy ending, the way you’re mine. And I’m gonna think of this as ours, because it is. I love you.”

Music started, an audible pointed cue. Jason retorted, “Okay, I’m done, I’m going!” and hopped back down off the stage, not out into the wings; he grabbed Colby’s hands—Colby let him, and loved it—and tugged, and they both ended up on their feet and kissing again, while the audience roared.

The end of the night passed in a rapid-fire glittering whirlwind. Champagne and congratulations. Photos backstage. Compliments and commendations. Jason drank in every drop, exhilarated, unused to it; Colby wanted to kiss him everyplace, and stay tucked under his arm forever, and tell him every good word ever, if it’d make those beautiful brown eyes light up exactly that way.

The joy carried him through an hour or so of socializing and small talk; he wanted Jason to have this, to feel it all. He released Jason reluctantly when photos of award winners were needed; Jill, having won for director, went too, which left Colby without either of his best shields. He drew a breath, stepped back, faded toward a corner of the room.

Someone bumped into him, apologized, bounced away. The number of bodies did not change but abruptly became too many, too clamoring, too unpredictable. He couldn’t see a good exit, or find quite enough air, or search out any space to not be touched.

Owen Heath, Welsh lilt extra-musical and tipsy, caught his shoulder. “Colby! Such a fantastic film, my god, you must be so proud! And your Jason entirely deserved this! I can’t even be mad about it!”

Colby, being a very good actor very hard at the moment, leaned on his love for Jason. A support. A cane. A splint. He wanted the hand off his shoulder. But Owen was praising Jason, and therefore worth tolerating. “Yes. Oh, yes. He deserves all the awards.”

“You two’re adorable!” Owen sloshed a drink around for orange-hued emphasis. “So in love! Why can’t I ever find someone who looks at me like that?”

He said it lightly, laughing, not pining; Colby smiled politely, thought about Jason, and answered, “I know how lucky I am. Finding him, being found…he’s wonderful.”

Owen made dramatic turtledove noises at him. “Oh, hey, want a drink? And can you teach me how to ride a horse?”

“What, here? Now?”

“No! For that Austen adaptation I’ve just said yes to! I said I could ride, but can I, fuck no.”

“Oh dear.”

“So _sweet_.” Owen sighed. “How do the hell d'you never swear? I’m over here just fucking saying fucking everything, all the time…” His expression changed. “Jason! Congratulations!”

Colby felt warmth and breadth and love arriving at his back, and turned, and resisted the impulse to throw himself into Jason’s arms. “Are you done with the photographs?”

“I am.” Jason folded him up into proprietary fortress-wings, mindful of the glass spike in a hand. “And Owen—thanks. It’s an honor, seriously. Colby, baby, you ready to get out of here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” He turned the line into a joke, complete with batted eyes; he knew Jason heard the truth underneath it, though no one else would. Jason’s stance shifted subtly in response: extra-protective, more ready to deploy martial arts and fisticuffs and flying kicks if need be.

Owen emitted more lovesick cooing noises, regarding them happily across a sip of his drink. Colby said, “If you recall this conversation in the morning, then yes, I can try to help. Send me a message and we’ll sort something out. Jason…yes. Please.”

“Then we’re already gone.” Jason kept him close, got him through throngs and back-slaps and camera-snaps. The limo came, right on time; they took it. Colby, once the door shut out the world, exhaled, letting his eyes shut as well.

“Colby?” Jason’s voice landed more carefully now, tender as consent. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just…what would help? You need me to hold you, or not touch you for a sec, or talk to you?”

“I’m all right.” Colby opened his eyes. “And you know I generally want to talk. Yes, you can hold me, I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Jason put arms around him. Colby rested his head on Jason and felt able to breathe at last, held and cared for, not pitied but strong enough to be given support. Jason added, “Sorry I didn’t get there earlier. I tried.”

“Oh…I can manage. I’m likely not ever going to enjoy it, but it’s just Owen. You don’t mind skipping the afterparties—”

“Nah. Got my afterparty right here.” Jason kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to help him with things. What things, anyway?”

“Apparently he needs to learn to ride. I’ll give him the name of my instructor from _King’s Court_ ; she worked miracles.”

“You’re a miracle.”

“You are, I think. An Audience Choice Award-winning hero.”

“Colby,” Jason said, earnest and heartfelt, every inch of muscle quivering with the need to impart the words, “you know I meant that, right? What I said. It’s ours. It should be yours. I don’t want to just take it when you were right there with me, and you’re so good, and—”

“It’s yours.” Colby stretched a hand up to put fingers over Jason’s mouth; Jason subsided, astonished by assertion. “You deserve it, you’ve earned it, and I’m so very proud to be here with you. My love.”

Jason blushed, enough to be noticeable under his tan. Colby raised eyebrows at him, mildly amused at and enjoying his own role: getting to lightly lecture Jason into self-worth for once. “Should I scold you for not listening, the way you do with me? Make you tell me out loud how talented and worthwhile you are?”

Jason made a noise. It was something like a squeak and a groan, and contained something that sounded like, “Oh Jesus,” and possibly, “fuck.”

Colby tapped his index finger over Jason’s lips. That one definitely earned a whimper. “…interesting.”

“Oh god,” Jason said. “Oh thank god we’re only like two minutes from home, because I can throw you onto the couch at home and just…fucking…everything, oh my god, Colby.”

Colby considered this idea, their respective positions, the light in Jason’s eyes, the taste of champagne. Sparkles on his tongue, in the night. “I might have an idea about that.”

“Anything,” Jason vowed. “Anything you want. However you want me to do it.”

“Actually…I was thinking…” They weren’t two minutes from home; they were all of a minute, and then they were arriving; Colby grabbed Jason’s hand and they tumbled out of the limo, up the front walk, to the door of the laid-back ranch-style home they’d bought together. Inside, as Jason kicked the door shut and buried hands in Colby’s hair and hauled them into another kiss, passionate and scorching. Up against a wall, not too roughly but with a lot of possessive claiming, the way they both knew Colby liked.

The bookshelves and tall picture windows and action-hero-sized sofa beamed in welcome. The night tasted cool as Los Angles evening air, full of salt and palm trees and sand.

“I was thinking…” Colby slid a hand up. Rested it on Jason’s chest, toying with shirt-buttons. Jason growled something inarticulate and tried for more kissing. His hips moved against Colby’s; their arousal pressed together, hard and hot. Colby loved that feeling, loved Jason, loved Jason inside him.

Just at this moment, though…this night, tonight…he did have an idea. He hoped Jason approved.

Jason, given the presence of Colby’s hand against his chest, stopped. “Everything okay? The weather?”

“The weather’s in favor of doing more.” Colby kissed him swiftly for reassurance, smiled, drew his finger along Jason’s throat. “In fact, I think…it might be up for something a bit different.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“You recall…” He wiggled hips just to feel Jason’s reaction, primal and delicious. “You asked me once whether I ever topped.”

Jason froze. Mouth open. Bulk not quite pinning Colby against the wall: stunned but forever aware of consideration, caution, kindness. Colby adored everything about him.

So he went on, “And I know you do switch, or you have before, just not with me…I know you’ve enjoyed it…and once in a while…maybe…I’m not saying it’ll be our usual, I _like_ our usual, but…the weather might be in the right mood.”

Jason carried on not saying anything. Staring at him. Immobile. Cock rock-hard and rigid against Colby’s, which was an argument in favor of the experiment in question.

“Er…a response would be helpful at this point? You can certainly say no.”

“Oh my god Colby holy fuck,” Jason said.

Colby gave him a head-tilt. Moderately sassy. Stepping up. Settling into the role. “I’m not certain what that means.”

“Um. Me either…you said…you _did_ just say…”

“I did, and I’m up for it if you are.”

Jason hadn’t heard the words right. Couldn’t’ve. Must’ve been distracted by the taste of Colby’s mouth on his, the tantalizing line of Colby’s throat all ready for kissing above a clinging green shirt and black leather jacket. “You want…you mean…no, wait…” Colby was smiling at him. “You really did just say that.”

“I thought we might like it.”

“But you don’t!”

He’d never expected that offer. He’d been completely fine with that—he liked being in charge, and Colby liked him being in charge, and that worked fantastically—and he’d’ve never asked.

He knew what Colby enjoyed; he knew how hard Colby had fought to be able to enjoy sex, to be touched at all, never mind intimately. He knew Colby did not feel particularly sure of himself, not convinced he’d ever been good enough, in bed; Jason had tried and would keep trying with all his heart to silence that painful second-guessing.

He also did know that Colby had tried topping with other partners exactly twice—two and a half, Colby’d said, only the middle time there’d been some tipsiness on both sides and it hadn’t worked out—because Colby had told him. He knew that wasn’t Colby’s preferred option. And, okay, Jason himself kind of liked bottoming on occasion—he’d done that with both guys and girls, and he and Cindy had mutually appreciated Cindy’s strap-on—but he _did_ like being in control, in any position or configuration, and he genuinely _didn’t_ mind Colby having a distinct preference about what went where.

But Colby was still talking: because Colby Kent always did keep talking, Jason thought, and his heart did a quick tiny action-hero air-punch, behind his breastbone. It loved all of Colby’s words.

“Oh…well, I said I’ve tried it a few times. I never said I didn’t enjoy it to some extent. Just that I enjoy the other rather more. But I was looking at you, the way you look tonight…so wonderful, so deserving of this, so ready to take care of me, if I need that…and I thought perhaps I wanted to take care of you, for tonight.” Colby’s eyes were very blue and very serious about this. “I want to give you this. Not just for you; for me as well. I admit I’m for some reason very…well, very turned on by the thought, right this moment. I have no idea why, other than that you’re splendid.”

Jason’s emotions spun and collided. The one that emerged stronger than any other was some sort of inarticulate screaming of _hell yes_. He got out, “Oh hell yes…”

“Good, then.”

“I love you,” Jason said, and then dropped to both knees right there on the entryway tile, tossed his award off to one side—it landed on a rug, where he’d pick it up later—and leaned forward and kissed Colby’s hip, over tight slacks, fervent and enthusiastic and every kind of ready for this. “How do you want to do this?”

Colby smiled down at him. Set a hand on Jason’s head, and stroked fingers through Jason’s hair: a gorgeous young prince with the world and one loyal knight at his feet. “I haven’t in fact properly worked it out. You may have to give me some direction. But…this is quite nice.”

“Me on my knees for you? I mean, I’d do that anyway. Whenever you want.” He ran a hand along Colby’s thigh, with some care—touching those long legs, like grabbing Colby’s luscious ass, could sometimes be a flashpoint for bad memories, but also was generally okay if Jason was doing the touching and Colby saw the motion coming—and with a whole ton of shooting stars launching themselves under his skin.

Touching Colby, getting on his knees for Colby, getting fucked by Colby. _Hell_ yeah. So much. He was surprised he hadn’t spontaneously combusted already. “You want me to follow your lead? Do what you say? Worship and adore you?”

Colby laughed. “I’m not your idol.”

“Yes you are.”

Colby looked briefly thoughtful, then lifted a decadent Victorian-styled boot and actually nudged the toe into Jason’s chest. “You can help me take these off.”

Jason, kneeling, with his prince’s boot issuing a physical command, groaned out loud. Couldn’t hold the sound back. Whole body all at once wire-taut with need.

Colby raised eyebrows. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” Jason explained. “You. That. Um. Yes.”

Colby laughed a little more, wobbled and caught balance, kept a hand on the helpful wall. “I’m not very good at this…but, ah, I did ask you to do something, didn’t I? Get on with it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jason scraped out, as his dick jerked and dribbled wetness all over his briefs, inside his pants. “Um. Okay. You’re really fucking good at this, actually, just so you know…” Colby’s boots had short fashionable zippers; he peeled down the first one, tugged, slid black leather and deep rose brocade off. He set it down with exquisite precision, being an attentive valet; Colby had on pink socks too, matching.

Colby switched feet. Extended the other one. Jason stayed on both knees, cradled the treasure of Colby’s foot, and rubbed a hand over Colby’s ankle after, an impulse.

“Oh,” Colby said, “you do like that. Undressing me…or is it my footwear? Or my legs?”

“Um,” Jason said. “All of you.”

“You look so very…into this.”

“I _am_. I want to…I don’t know. Whatever you say you’re up for. Please.”

Colby thought this over. “I do have other clothing you can unzip.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“With your mouth.”

Jason just sat back on heels for a second and forgot to move, delighted.

Colby immediately said, “Oh, no, too much, sorry—you don’t have to—”

He stopped talking, because Jason had leaned forward and tugged at Colby’s pants and figured out how to work a zipper. Felt good. Different—himself following orders—but not all that different; he’d forever do what Colby wanted.

He also rubbed his face against the bulge of Colby’s cock in pale blue briefs, where familiar arousal arched up all nice and fat and long, just because he felt like it. Colby let out a completely perfect tiny squeak and slumped back against the wall. “Oh my.”

“Love you.”

“I…of course I love you…I don’t know what to ask you to do. I suspect this is the point when I’d normally beg you to take care of me, but I’m not certain me asking you to take over is precisely in the spirit of this particular interlude.”

“God, I love hearing you talk.”

Colby some time ago would’ve asked whether that was true, and not believed the answer; Colby tonight got kind of flustered and pink-cheeked, but offered, “I can talk more? Er…should I ask you to take me to the bedroom? And finish removing my clothes?” His hand toyed with Jason’s hair, lightly.

“Yep.” Jason got up—one knee creaked in protest, because the floor was hard and he wasn’t _that_ young anymore—and caught Colby’s hand and kissed it. “I can do that.” They went.

In their bedroom, under a white ceiling and intricate amber lamps that Colby’d bought from a glassblower at a steampunk convention, Jason stripped off Colby’s jacket, shirt, pants, underwear. Layer by layer. Even the socks, which made him smile. His hands, Colby’s bare skin, Colby’s naked trust. Private and close, revealed and shared. Just for them.

He liked doing this. He liked being what Colby wanted. His skin shivered and prickled, over-sensitive, simmering.

Colby said, “Can you also be naked? I like seeing you.”

“Totally.” He flung clothing off. Tossed it at a convenient tall chair. Promised to put it away later. Right now he was doing what Colby said.

In front of Colby, on display, he spread arms out. “You said you like me naked?” He hoped so; he knew Colby appreciated men with lots of muscles and size and strength, and Jason Mirelli might be getting a little older but still had a pretty decent action-star and former stunt-man physique, or he thought so. Colby unquestionably liked his chest, and had said so before, while running fingers across him.

Colby put out a hand and traced a line along Jason’s stomach. “So very nice. And so very eager.” They both looked at Jason’s dick, upright and hot and leaking with, yeah, eagerness.

“If you want me to do this…” Colby hesitated. “Er, you’ll have to help. I don’t—I don’t really know…I mean, you know about me and the…you know I hadn’t really had _good_ sex until you. So if you know what you need to do to, ah…get ready for me…”

“Hey,” Jason said, in love and aching with it. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Just making sure.” He stepped in close, cupped Colby’s cheek, brought their bodies together. “You’re fucking incredible. Don’t ever think you’re not. You want to see me do that? Getting myself all ready for you?”

“Oh,” Colby said. “Yes. Yes, I—I think I’d like that. I would like to see that. Will you do that for me?”

“With a whole fucking lot of pleasure, baby.” He rubbed a thumb over Colby’s cheek. “So much pleasure. I want to feel you inside me, and I want you to like feeling it too.”

“I will, I think.” Colby tipped his head into the caress. “You…you like being…you like how it feels.” That was a question, under the statement. “You know I like it when it’s you. I only…I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, or not enough to make it good.”

“ _I_ know what we’re doing,” Jason said. “And you’re already good. We’ll be awesome, okay?”

“Such confidence. That’s one reason I wanted to, you know.” The blue of Colby’s eyes shimmered, reflective. “You up on that stage, you deserving all the awards…the way you were smiling…oh, I just wanted to leap on top of you right there. Or in a men’s room. Or the back seat of a limousine. I might be dreadful at this, but I also really really want to try.”

“If I’d known you were thinking that, we would’ve left _way_ earlier.” Jason tugged his future husband over to the bed and dove for lube, the good kind. “Or found your men’s room. And you could’ve had your way with me. What would you tell me to do?”

“Ah…touch yourself? So I can watch? Stroke your…your cock. For me.” Colby settled in at Jason’s side; Jason immediately got a hand around himself—his dick jumped and spilled a little more at the relief—and pumped, leisurely, letting those wide blue eyes see. Putting on a display. Head pushing up, girth moving in his grip.

Colby’s breath caught. Jason smirked.

“Oh, yes, that,” Colby said. “I do like that. But…that’s not all you’re doing, is it? You need to, er…open yourself up. May I…oh, no, hang on. Shall I make that an order? With your fingers.”

Jason’s entire chest hurt with love. Colby’s voice, that delicious mix of hesitance and authority, exploration and fascination. Colby’s warmth beside him, acres of English-pale smooth skin and a few scattered stray freckles. Colby’s arousal, blatant and bumping Jason’s hip.

He poured lube onto his hand. Moved the hand lower, further back: planting feet, spreading thighs, letting Colby see that too: his fingers tracing the rim of his own hole.

God, that felt good. It’d been a while, and his body wanted this; even more, he knew Colby was watching, and _that_ felt fucking glorious.

He pushed a finger in, gradual, getting himself used to it. Colby’s eyes were saucers, and one hand absently drifted to his own cock, cupping himself. Jason grinned. “You like watching me?”

Colby nodded, licking lips.

“Good,” Jason told him, “I like you watching,” and went for more. Two fingers. Stretching, Easing in and out. Working himself open and slick, on his own hand.

The stretch felt awesome. Colby watching felt awesome. The bed underneath him felt awesome. The whole night twinkled, spun out of champagne and a spiky glass statuette and his name being called and the joy in Colby’s expression.

“Jason?” Colby’s question emerged not afraid but not loud, either; Jason tried to figure out how to both cuddle him and keep doing things with one hand, and hadn’t worked that out before his other half went on, “You look as if you’re enjoying yourself…”

“I am, baby, I swear.” Okay, so reassurance would be important. Jason had expected as much, though not quite yet; he’d guessed Colby might need encouragement when they got to the whole getting-on-top part, but maybe affirmation about Jason honestly liking this, feeling good, would help. He could do that, if Colby needed it.

“No—I mean yes—I mean that wasn’t my question.” Colby scooted even closer, pressed up against Jason in so many places. “May I…would you mind if I touched you?”

“I would fucking love it if you touched me,” Jason told him truthfully. “But you don’t have to. If you’re not feeling up to—”

Colby reached over and wrapped long elegant fingers around Jason’s dick. Decisively so.

Jason made a noise that was no kind of word at all.

Colby’s eyes glinted. Pirate flags in all the blue. Mischief on the oceans, with a fairytale accent. “I believe I’m in charge at the moment.”

“You—” Colby stroked the hand along Jason’s dick. Jason forgot how to talk.

“In fact…” Colby trailed fingers lower. Over Jason’s balls, which drew up more, ready with need. And then lower still: behind them.

Jason couldn’t even breathe. Colby couldn’t’ve meant—

“I was thinking that perhaps you could show me how to do this.” Colby’s fingers met Jason’s hand. Right there. Where he was buried in himself, stretching himself. And Colby was touching him.

“Oh fuck,” Jason said, “oh fuck, Colby, I—yes, oh god yes, I might actually fucking come on the spot if you do that, but fuck yes, please, I’m begging you, please.”

Colby tossed him a smile, leaned down, and licked the wet tip of Jason’s dick, evidently just because. “No finishing before I get to find out how you feel.”

Jason whimpered some more, slipped his own fingers out, and said, “I fucking love you.”

“I love you. Tell me how to do this for you.”

“Um. Oh god. Okay. Lube. I already kinda did, but you want to know, and more can’t hurt.” He waited while Colby got lube all over fingers, shiny and gleaming, and then looked at him for more instructions. “God, you’re perfect. Okay, you saw what I was doing. Start with one.”

Colby touched him. Just a feather-light touch, a brush against Jason’s rim; but the whole fucking earth danced, in that instant. Colby eased the very tip of one finger inside, and paused. “If it doesn’t feel…that is…you’ll tell me if I hurt you? Or do anything you don’t like?”

Jason met his gaze. Held and comforted worried blue horizons and pirates who didn’t truly want to do any harm. “I will. I promise.”

“Well, then.” Colby’s smile reappeared. “Then…like this?” His finger slid deeper. Into Jason’s body.

That was Colby inside him. Jason had never felt so full, or so in awe.

Colby got a bit braver, and drew the finger back and pushed in again, a tiny thrust. “You feel so…not like anything else. And I’m imagining…”

“How that’s gonna feel when you fuck me? Me too. So much. You can do two fingers, go on.”

Colby looked at Jason’s hole—Jason shivered with pleased exposure—and then at his own hand, and then slipped two fingers in. They went in easily, given all of Jason’s own stretching earlier; despite that, every inch of Jason’s body lit up. Colby, fucking him. With those calligrapher’s fingers. Christ.

Colby moved fingers at _almost_ the right angle, just barely not hitting the firecracker spot; Jason swore out loud. Colby froze.

“No, no, that was—you’re fucking amazing, baby, just—can you do that again but—a little more up, kinda?”

Colby started to ask a question, clearly figured out what Jason meant just before talking, and turned the answer into, “Oh. I see. I do love how good you are at finding that, with me.”

Jason spared a second—only a single second, because he couldn’t think much—to loathe all of Colby’s exes and especially the last one. But they weren’t here. He was.

Colby said, “So…more like this?” and repositioned the fingers, and every firework in the universe went off at once, shooting wild rockets down Jason’s spine. Colby did it again, plainly having taken note of the reaction and committing the angle to memory, and Jason’s voice cracked while moaning his name.

“So.” Colby paused, fingers remaining buried all the way in Jason. “That seems to be going well.”

“Mmmmm,” Jason got out. His brain wasn’t working.

Colby blinked in what was mostly exaggerated surprise, played up for effect. Jason had never seen exactly this side of him, in bed: playful and teasing, anxious but willing to take charge, asking questions and making choices for them both.

Colby inquired, “Was that a good sound? I would like to think so.”

“Please fuck me now?” Jason pleaded. “Please.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Always!”

“How do I know…I mean, you always seem to know, when you’re doing this to me…when should I stop? That is, would more fingers be helpful? Or more doing things with these fingers? Could I get you off simply doing this?” Colby wiggled fingers in demonstration. Jason groaned and clung to the bed. Death by orgasm possibly imminent. Pushed over the edge by inquisitive blue eyes and hopeful courage.

“I’m guessing I could,” Colby finished. “You’ve certainly done so for me. But right now we have plans, don’t we?”

“You so could. I’d love it. But yeah. Um.” Colby’d asked him a question. He tried to focus. Being experienced. Showing Colby how to do this. Okay. Words. He could handle words. “Um, for one, I’ll tell you. But you can kinda feel it, right? How I’m more relaxed, more opened up, for you?”

“I think so, yes. I know I like feeling that way.” Colby ducked his head to kiss Jason’s thigh, admitted while down there, “I very much do. And after…when you have me all open from you, all…full of you, dripping out of me…and you look at me as I’m lying there like that, and I feel so absolutely decadent and lovely and loved, all yours…”

“Huh.” He hadn’t known that, or not exactly. He’d known that Colby didn’t mind getting covered in Jason’s release, and that Colby liked being cleaned up and cared for by Jason’s big hands; he had thought Colby, who could be skittish around some old sharp emotional spikes involving cruelty in bed, might be embarrassed about being looked at too much while vulnerable and messy. He trusted Colby to tell him about discomfort, so he’d figured it hadn’t been a problem, but he hadn’t been purposefully lingering and gazing at Colby’s dripping freshly-fucked hole, either. “You want me to do that more?”

“I like belonging to you.”

“I could tie you to the bed again. Wrists _and_ ankles. And then just keep you like that, after.” They’d negotiated the restraints question, too. Colby needed to have a way to get out, and didn’t like outright pain; Jason needed him to feel safe, and never wanted to hurt him. Scarves worked well; so did the heavy satin rope, with quick-release knots that Colby could reach. With safety-nets in place, they’d had some damn good times with that rope. Colby always hit subspace fast and powerfully, sometimes babbling, sometimes utterly wordless, when tied up and thoroughly conquered by Jason. “Just pet you, play with you a little, while you’re there. While you’re all full of me, so full it’s just leaking out of you, and you’re a fucking gorgeous mess because you’ve come all over yourself, too, the way you do when I fuck you…”

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking before I decide we’re doing that instead. Definitely remember it for next time, however.” Colby’s lips brushed Jason’s tip, breathing words into a kiss over heated skin. “This time…we said I’m in charge. With your assistance. Should I, er, get on with things?”

“Yes _please_.”

“Ah…” Colby glanced down at himself. His cock, while not as thick or quite as all-over large as Jason’s, was flawlessly proportioned: long and curved and full, already wet-tipped because Colby tended to do that, to get all wet with anticipation when excited. “I have to say, I know it _should_ fit, because it certainly does the other way round, with you and me, but… _does_ that in fact fit?”

Jason had to put an arm over his face, laughing. Not because of the question. Because Colby sounded so genuinely concerned. So fucking precious. Wonderful. All his.

He peeked out from under the arm, saw Colby laughing too, and sat up to tackle his heart down into the bed. Colby settled atop him, lying between his legs; their hips collided.

“I’m sorry,” Colby explained, through giggles, “I only…I looked at me, and at you…how do _I_ even do that, when you’re even larger…no, no, I’m fine. We’re fine. You want me to, I know.”

“I do.” Laughter hung gold in the night, in the lamplight, in all the places they were touching. In the stroke of Jason’s hand along Colby’s spine, and the way Colby smiled in reply. “Grab the lube and come here, baby.”

Colby promptly did as requested. His cock stood up, slick and ready; he moved carefully between Jason’s thighs, and waited.

“Go on,” Jason suggested. His whole self yearned for exactly that; he hadn’t known how badly he wanted it.

Physically, sure. But even more, he wanted them to have this: something reclaimed, found, discovered, one more way they came together. He touched Colby’s arm; Colby gazed down at him. Dark hair stood up in rumpled waves, and those blue eyes held pure desire, and Jason could’ve lain there looking up at that vision atop him forever.

Colby inched forward. His tip pressed against Jason’s entrance, which quivered, needing more; another small thrust pushed further, nudging the thickness of his head in. Jason drew a breath—god, that feeling, being stretched and filled up and penetrated—and Colby snapped into immobility. “Was that—”

“No, it’s good, you’re so good—more, you can do more, baby, come on…” He remembered to exhale; he coaxed Colby on with words, touching, making himself relax.

“Ah. All right, then…” More. Sliding in. So thorough, and so fulfilling; Colby, who had not ever done this much, looked astonished, breathless, dazed. “Jason…you feel…”

“You like this?” He ran a hand along Colby’s arm again. “You like feeling me all around you?”

“I do…I want…will you talk to me? Tell me what you like?”

“Totally. You can move more, I’m good.” He was: his body knew how to do this, and the discomfort wasn’t much, hardly anything, especially not compared to the sensation of Colby inside him. He shifted hips, pushed up against Colby—heard the gasp, and felt Colby’s cock plunge deeper—and grinned. “Harder is good too.”

“Oh no,” Colby said, “I can’t hurt you, I can’t…but nice and slow, perhaps…like this…” He pulled back slightly, thrust: a long gradual sinking-home, a roll of flexible hips, a glide that felt like it went on and on, and made Jason’s muscles clench helplessly.

“Ah,” Colby said this time, with some delight, “you like that, but what if I could find that spot again, that angle…more sort of upward, you said, though that was fingers…”

“Yeah…I…can you…just a little, not too much—oh fuck right _there_ —!”

“That sounded lovely.” Colby, bending down over him, paused to kiss Jason’s jaw, throat, shoulder. The whole wonderful length of him, sunk inside Jason, stroked along Jason’s body and kindled radiance everyplace. He rocked hips, turned each thrust into measured drawn-out lightning-flares, deliberate and inexorable.

Jason groaned and said Colby’s name over and over and moved under him, with him, being taken apart and loving it. Colby wasn’t practiced at this, no, and was obviously nervous, but those long gradual rolling waves were fucking ecstatic delirious torment. Jason’s body clutched and clung to each thrust, and his dick was pressed between their stomachs and leaking desperation all over them both, and he needed to come just like this, from the man he loved fucking him so securely, incontrovertibly.

“Jason?”

Jason managed, ragged, “Yeah…?”

“You like me on top.” Colby nibbled at Jason’s lower lip. “I like you telling me what to do. But…before that…there’s something I did want to say.”

“Anything, always…you know you can…” Talking. Words. Reassurance. Colby needed anchoring and protecting. “Something…not good…for you?”

“Excellent. The way you feel…” Colby’s eyes sparkled. Light framed his face, spilled through his eyelashes; he really was an idol, Jason decided. Worthy of worship. Glowing. “But I wanted to say…I want to give you everything. Everything you could ever want. Including this. But—”

“You don’t have to.” He used his non-sticky hand to brush a dark curl of hair out of Colby’s eyebrow, as they lay entangled and poised on the brink. “You _don’t_ have to do anything. To make me love you. I _do_.”

“I know. I mean…I do know. Most of the time. It’s not about me.” Colby’s smile outshone the night. “I wanted to say that you’re wonderful, and you deserve everything. The awards. Tonight. This. Every bit of recognition, everything that feels good…” He offered punctuation in a hip-roll, a lazy thrust. “You’re so good, Jason.”

“Kinda think _you_ are, y’know.”

“I’m being serious.” Colby watched his face, kept him pinned with blue conviction and slender strength, did not back down. “Tell me you know that. How gifted you are, and how much you deserve this.”

“You…what, you…you want me to say it? That I’m awesome?”

“Yes. For me. Please.”

Jason opened his mouth to say the words—Colby wanted him to, so of course he would—and lost his voice in a sob, a gulp, an abrupt snare of feelings. His eyes burned. “I…”

“You _are_ good,” Colby said, clear as a vow, sure as ancient stone set in a castle wall, “as an actor, in our profession, as someone who deserved that award tonight. And as the man I love, who takes care of me when I need that. So let me take care of you. Er, with your help. But I do want you to say it, I’m afraid, before I get back to, ah, fucking you.”

Jason didn’t know how to begin to answer. Colby hardly ever even cursed, and was now talking about fucking him; Colby wanted to take care of him; Colby loved him and wanted to do this with him, wanted to give him this…

His eyelashes felt damp. He felt like glass, like the statuette he’d dropped on the way in: astounded and breakable and somehow incredibly present, here and real and raw and opened up, gazing up at Colby.

Who said nothing, only waiting; he smiled a fraction more, and traced a heart with one sticky finger over Jason’s chest.

“I,” Jason said, and he was crying, but that was okay, Colby’s eyes were brimming with it too and Colby had him and Colby would hold onto him. “I’m…I did deserve it. Tonight. They—they thought I deserved it.”

“You do.”

“And…all the nominations…my name up there…with yours…”

“You deserve to be there.”

“I think,” Jason whispered, “I do. I think I do. And you think I do. I’m…good enough. For that.”

“You are.” Colby rewarded him with another thrust, a rocking of hips, a pump of iron deep inside. Jason moaned. Colby did it again.

“And…I’m good enough for you.” That one made Colby’s lips part, comprehending and startled; but he answered immediately, “Yes,” and bent down for another kiss, open-mouthed and sincere.

“I _am_ ,” Jason said again, after, a little stronger, and Colby said the yes again, and nuzzled kisses along Jason’s throat.

“I fucking love you,” Jason proclaimed this time, and wrapped arms around him, pulling him close. Colby let out a small yelp of surprise, but not protest; Jason looped a leg around him too, holding him, being held, being loved. Revelation bubbled through his veins like stardust, like fizzing rainbows, like the cinnamon sweetness of Colby’s coffee in the mornings.

He said, “I want you to fuck me, baby, Colby, right now,” and he meant _I love you, I love you so damn much, you know what I need even before I do, I want to be everything and have everything with you._

He thought maybe, from the expression in blue eyes, Colby heard all that.

And very much wanted to listen, at least judging from the speeding-up of hips, the quicker thrust where they were joined, the skip in Colby’s inhale. “Jason—could you—”

“Talk to you? Yeah, of course—you feel so fucking good, like this…” He had a hand on Colby’s hip, urging more. “You’re all mine, baby, all of you, the way you like…this too, your pretty cock and how you use it…you’re all mine because you want to be, because I’m all yours too, you want me, you picked me.” He had to stop to feel the immensity of that for a second; Colby shivered atop him, against him, and moved in him as if unable to not. “And I love you. Feeling you…feeling fucking everything, with you…so good.”

“Jason,” Colby whispered, and snuck a hand between their bodies somehow, and took Jason’s dick in graceful slippery fingers.

And that was it, that was the crescendo and the thunderclap, so much and too much and tipping-over: Colby touching him, fucking him, gazing down at him, saying his name. Jason heard himself shout, wordless, hoarse; his body tightened and coiled and spun higher, and then broke into release, white-hot and shaking and enraptured. He bore down around Colby’s hardness deep in him; he came all over Colby’s hand and their stomachs, nearly sobbing with it.

Colby gasped his name once more, and lost control enough to slam forward, one final plunge that made Jason cry out again at the feeling; and Colby was coming too, eyes and mouth wide and shocked, spurts that Jason could feel, so much and so hot.

He clung to Colby in the magnificent rippling eddies. He felt Colby’s weight on him, slim and strong and utterly slack in the aftermath, sprawled across him.

They were breathing in unison, he noticed after a while. And one of them had kicked all the sheets and blankets to the floor.

Colby stirred, opened eyes, searched Jason’s face. “Was that…are you…oh my.”

“Sounds about right, yeah…”

“I feel…”

“Good, I hope?”

“Isn’t that my line? For you?” Colby tapped fingers over the spot he’d sketched the heart, on the left side of Jason’s chest. “That was…you are all right.”

“I’m fucking fantastic. I’m all…” He waved a hand limply, let it drop onto Colby’s back. Love suffused all his heartbeats. “Everything. I love you. How was that, for you?”

“You _are_ fantastic,” Colby said softly. “You know I meant that. Everything we said. I love you so very much. And yes, I do feel wonderful.”

“I know,” Jason said, around the scratch in his voice: the ache of impossible adoration, and the way Colby knew him like no one else ever, the way they fit. “I know you mean it. And…thanks. For doing that.”

“I’ll tell you more often, I think.” Colby wriggled against him. “Ah…things are…slipping…”

“Yeah…can you move, for a sec? I can clean us up…”

“No, I want to.” Colby withdrew gingerly, studying Jason’s reaction; Jason, busy being blissful all over, just flopped back down and grinned at him. There’d be a little soreness, maybe—it’d been a while—but between combined efforts they’d done an outstanding job getting him prepared, and anyway he liked the reminder.

Colby kissed his stomach—coming up with traces of Jason’s release on amused lips, and licking them after—and then went and found a towel and warm water, and took over Jason’s usual job, sweetly devoutly cleaning bare skin and stickiness and fluids and sensitive places. He wasn’t all that practiced at this either, but he was devoted and beautiful, made of sex-tumbled hair and grave tender focus and long limbs. The single darker freckle near his collarbone stood out, beloved and recognizable and kissable as ever.

Jason’s spent dick, liking the sight of Colby taking determined responsibility for aftercare, twitched. Colby laughed. “Really?”

“Hey, you’re hot.”

“I’m holding a towel.”

“And you’re perfect. That’s fine, that’s good enough, I’ll carry you off to the shower in a minute, come here.”

Colby did, readily; Jason flung every possible limb around him for cuddling. Colby murmured, face tucked into Jason’s collarbone, “You feel good.”

“Not too tight?”

“Mmm…not when it’s you. You’ll let me up if I ask.”

“Whenever you say so. Colby?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re happy, right?”

“Yes.” Colby squirmed around to look at him, narrowly avoiding smacking Jason’s chin with the top of his head on the way. “Yes, entirely. Did you need to ask?”

“Just checking? Weather metaphors all good with the, y’know…what we just did?”

“Thunderstorms and electricity. Ozone. Petrichor. I do love rain. I think…not every day, not even most days—I like what we normally do, and I want that—but…we could do this a bit more.”

“…seriously?”

“Yes.” Colby poked toes under Jason’s ankle, nestling in. “I might not immediately think of it, but then again sometimes I might. Like tonight. Or you can ask me for that. I would like to try it again—not now, but on occasion. Practice. Getting better. Possibly with your instructions. Could we do that more? You…using me like that, in control of how I, er…what parts of me you want to use. Or I could perhaps put fingers in you while you fuck me. Or whatever ideas you’ve got; I want to learn.”

“Jesus, Colby…”

“Er…too much enthusiasm? Sorry.”

“Absolutely fucking _perfect_ enthusiasm. You can try everything. And no apologizing.”

“I’m very sorry about that.”

Jason snorted, freed a hand, smacked him—not hard, but enough for emphasis—on the ass. “I’ll spank you more for that later. You _know_ you did that one just so I would.”

“I did. I like you reminding me about a rule or two.” Colby yawned, mischief now warring with weariness. “I’m more tired than I thought…”

“You can nap. I’ll wake you up in a little bit.”

“You’re not tired? After that?”

“I am, but not that much.” He rubbed Colby’s ass this time, over the spot he’d used for the reminder. He wasn’t surprised Colby was tired; that’d been a lot, physically and otherwise. Everything Colby didn’t try much. But wanted to try again. With him. He couldn’t not beam with pride. “Kinda just want to hold you right now.”

“Mmmm…yes, please, do that.” Colby tucked his head back down on Jason’s shoulder; after a moment his breathing evened out, if not entirely asleep at least drowsing. His body was languid and sated and comfortable against Jason’s, cradled and kept safe.

Jason tipped his head to rest against Colby’s, feeling dark hair frisk along his skin; he breathed in and out, and knew the fabulous wrung-out thrum of his body, and the rhythmic profound beating of his heart, and the presence of an award for acting and a film he loved, made with the man he loved, who lay here contented in his arms.

He whispered into Colby’s hair, “I love you,” and knew Colby was asleep, well-loved and trusting.

He kept his arms wrapped around Colby, kept himself wrapped around Colby, and shut his eyes. Not sleeping—he’d wake them up soon and get them both properly cleaned up, maybe in the bathtub, letting Colby stay anchored and drowsy and pliant under his ministrations—but drifting.

He thought about awards, and rewards, and deserving them.

He thought about the way he’d felt, the fierce astounded pride in his chest, up on a stage. The thrill each time Colby showed him his name on a pretty damn significant list of awards nominees. The way he felt knowing that someone—his peers, the audience, the critics, his family, Colby—really honestly liked what he could do.

He thought that maybe he felt pretty good about himself, where he was, who he was. With this man, this extraordinary brave and brilliant man, at his side.

Or, he thought, inside him, once in a while; and he stifled the sudden laugh. Colby made a small questioning sound; Jason petted him until he went back to sleep.

Colby had wanted this. Colby did want this. So did Jason. Not all the time, but on occasion. When they both felt like it.

They both loved the feeling of Colby taking Jason’s hands or tongue or cock inside him, Jason fucking him, Jason adoring him and claiming him and making him wait or beg or come over and over, until he was flying amid sublime submissive pleasure. But they could have this too.

They could have both. Additions, explorations, discoveries to play with. More, the way living with Colby always was more: books and coffee and steampunk boots and new recipes and love, so much love Jason sometimes thought he’d burst at the seams with it, and then had to buy Colby a new writing-notebook or kiss him senseless on the sofa while a movie script dropped unheeded to the floor.

He wondered whether Colby would like a very gentle round two, maybe in the bathtub, maybe with Jason’s hand stroking that pretty cock while Colby sat in his lap, maybe reestablishing some more familiar dominance and surrender and comforting balance. Their tub was big enough for that; Jason had made sure of it.

I love you, he thought again. With everything I am. The way I know you love me. Us, together.

He lay there keeping Colby warm, in their bed, the one they’d picked out for this house together; he reminded himself to pick up _his_ award and put it on a bookshelf in the morning, where it could make them both smile.

He kissed the top of Colby’s head, heard Colby’s tiny sleepy happy noise in response, and felt Colby try to cuddle even closer. Jason held on more firmly, and let himself be happy and warm too, everyplace deep inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...more or less the last bonus scene I had planned for Jason and Colby, unless I put up a chapter that's just, like, a list of my head-canon. (Like Colby finally meeting Jason's friends. Or Colby and his dad's new wife. Or Jason's family and the engagement party. ~~or that scene I didn't write here in which Jason totally literally gets off on Colby's boots~~ ) There might be some extra Leo/Sam bonus scenes, though. We shall see...
> 
> The song in my head for this one is Lifehouse's "Everything," because that's what came up on my playlist, and it's perfect.


	11. bodyguard role-play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I appreciate you,” Colby said immediately. “Would you like to ensure that I’m entirely taken care of? Oh…hmm…that’s a brilliant set-up, isn’t it…”
> 
> “I love your brain. Am I your bodyguard, then? And you’re still a movie star, like the world’s biggest movie star, so basically still you, just…kinda lonely, maybe, needing some love. And I’m secretly in love with you, obviously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I was wrong. There're 12 chapters, not 10. 
> 
> This one was actually supposed to be part of the last chapter, which is another one that's more a collection of short moments. But this moment grew...and grew...and finally I gave up and let it be its own chapter.
> 
> (The last chapter will have the scene in which Colby meets Jason's friends properly, finally, I promise. Which is why we get the nod to Jason's friend Evan in here.)

In the pooling space between afternoon and evening, in the hazy springtime and the aftermath of a photo shoot, Jason came home and shut the front door and held out a hand; Colby looked at it, and took it.

Jason drew him in, held him close. Felt Colby’s body against his: tall and firm and slim and strong. Dressed in lots of layers. The air wasn’t _that_ cold.

A bittersweet prong of flashback kicked him in the gut for a second: Colby on the _Steadfast_ film set, not yet in wardrobe, wearing layers then too. Keeping unwanted contact at bay with too-long sleeves and jackets and scarves over sweaters and all hands and elbows and baby-deer legs tucked in close.

He said into Colby’s hair, over the curve of one ear, “Sorry about that.” Wisps of woodsmoke silk tickled his mouth.

“About what?” Colby ducked his head to kiss Jason’s throat, then looked up. A bit of his hair got into one eye; he brushed it back. Jason kind of wished he hadn’t. Would’ve done it himself.

Colby sighed. “Oh. That. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’d tell you if not.” Colby looped both arms around Jason’s neck. Blue glinted, halfway between pleased and lightly scolding. “You know I would. And I enjoyed watching you. You in some of those poses…you with those weights…when they had you show off some moves and kicks…”

“You enjoyed that.” He bumped his nose into Colby’s, clumsy with affection.

This particular health and fitness magazine had a long-standing reputable name and a huge audience; Jason had been happy to do the interview and cover and photo spread. He’d done this one before, but not for several years; maybe at least seven, he realized with some surprise. Well before Colby.

Who’d come along, intrigued and generally in favor of watching Jason get shirtless and lift heavy objects. The photographer’d been fine with that; having Colby Kent voluntarily wander by just for fun was a rarity, though a little less so these days, when Colby had Jason.

Jason felt his chest expand a little, thinking of that. Colby felt safe with him. Felt like going out, being in public, with him. He was a good shield.

He wasn’t sure he’d been good enough, today. But Colby said everything was fine. So maybe he had.

“I do.” Answering; Colby would forever have words. “You know how much I appreciate…large men. Powerful. Protective. Absolutely glorious. Those muscles, rippling all over…and they put that oil on you, and…oh, _yes_. You know about you and me and what gets me, er…yes, let’s say appreciative.”

Jason had to laugh. “Think I got that part figured out, yeah. You totally have a thing for guys who could bench-press you.” He made it a joke, because it was true and they both knew it was; he made it tender, because Colby did have that history of falling for dominant men, guys who were physically and emotionally commanding, guys who’d make the first move and claim him and take him home, or possibly pin him against the wall in a men’s room and take him right there while saying things like _I just couldn’t keep my hands off you_.

Colby Kent had always wanted, wistfully, to _be_ wanted: to be loved, to be special to someone, to be cared for. Too many men had taken advantage of that. Too many times. Too cruelly. Sometimes with bruises, or a laughing outright refusal to listen to a soft and hesitant _I’d really rather not do that_ or _please don’t invite your friend over and tell him to touch me there_ or _please stop, that’s actually hurting a bit, please_ …

But that was the past. Not irrelevant—it wouldn’t be that—but not the present, either. Not here with them.

Jason leaned in to nibble at Colby’s lower lip, just because he could. Because Colby was here in his arms, in their house, and happy there. “I know you don’t like being touched. Not me, I mean, other people.”

“Oh…no. That is, yes, you’re right about that; you know you are. But I’m doing better with that, and he didn’t know.” Also true. Though Jason didn’t like the flash of memory, of that afternoon. Even if Colby’s eyes remained bright and unruffled by anything but desire.

They’d been in a studio, on a set, for Jason’s photo shoot. Colby had curled up in a chair and watched and appreciated, and had also brought a book for downtime and visible occupation when Jason was being styled and directed. He’d had coffee and several layers of jacket and hoodie and t-shirt, so the armor would keep him insulated; he’d looked younger in some indefinable way, maybe because the hoodie was one of Jill’s old _Girls With Swords_ spares, or maybe because that plus skinny grey jeans and black boots and messy hair managed a sort of baby rock-star style, or maybe because this wasn’t _his_ photo shoot or interview and consequently nothing was required of him, no weight landing on those slim shoulders.

He’d stayed out of the way. Jason had obligingly stripped down—tank top first, then shirtless, and later some shots in shorts and a robe—and did some push-ups, hoisted some weights just for effect, posed in a fake version of a wrestling arena. The interviewer’d asked about workout routines, keeping that physique. Jason had talked about the gym days, lifting days, cardio days; had mentioned the days that went to keeping up the karate and kickboxing and also any actual required stunt choreography. He did some of that less lately, which he’d pointed out. Film roles more about depth and character, if still usually physically powerful characters. Plus the whole getting older part. His right knee tended to make complaining noises in the mornings.

He did like staying in decent shape, though. Felt good. Like himself. Anyway, Colby liked it too.

The interviewer had asked about diet and living with Colby Kent. “We all know Colby’s a fantastic chef, there’re the stories about baking scones for an entire film production’s crew, or that time he sent a basket of shortbread to that morning show as an apology. Does that make avoiding temptation tough?”

Jason, pausing for a sip of water while someone decided to bring him a jump-rope, had laughed. Had answered that, yeah, Colby was amazing in the kitchen; Colby also understood about the needs of various roles, and—when necessary—was a genius at making chicken breasts less boring. Colby had looked up and given him a tiny wave, at that.

Jason had finished, “Plus we’re pretty physically active, y’know, in general,” and Colby had blushed but arched an eyebrow at him, and Jason had tacked on, “…I mean, he’s started coming to the gym with me some days, plus he’s teaching me to swim, we’ve got a pool out here,” all of which was completely honest and failed to include the specific physical activity they’d been engaged in that morning, involving Colby on his back in bed with both legs up over Jason’s shoulders.

Colby had come twice just from being fucked, having Jason buried inside him, Jason above him and looking down at him and telling him to go ahead, to let go, to let Jason see him come all over himself. Jason felt a certain amount of smug pride about this.

He hadn’t expected the second one. He’d been still lazily rocking hips into Colby, pushing himself as deep as he could go, and he’d bent closer and tangled fingers into Colby’s hair and scattered kisses all over Colby’s face, jaw, throat. Colby had made a soft shocked sound and tightened all around him and trembled, so Jason had fucked him a little harder and sweeter, more kisses and nuzzles and rolls of hips, and Colby had whimpered frantically and his cock had spilled sudden pulsing wetness again across his stomach, joining the streaks already there.

They’d held each other, breathless and incandescent, in the wake of it.

They’d been happy. The way Colby was happy, right now, in their house with the tall bookshelves and arched doorways and big picture windows and hanging garlands of pots and pans. Jason kissed him again, lightly. “Maybe _I_ don’t like people touching you.”

Colby laughed. The books and shelves and pots picked up the laughter and gave it back a hundredfold. “My hero. Protecting me from overzealous set assistants. How can we take care of you, then?”

The set assistants had been the problem. Jason had asked that everyone leave Colby alone. Not quite a condition of his agreeing to the photo shoot, but not exactly optional, either.

At first it’d been fine. After an hour or so of having the actual real-life movie-star idol Colby Kent on set, the assistants hadn’t been able to contain themselves. Lots of hovering. Lots of asking whether Colby wanted anything. Bringing new cups of coffee every five minutes.

Colby had put up with this with the sort of patience that’d been honed at parental diplomat’s dinners and literary salons, flawlessly polite and kind. The tipping-point’d hit when he’d been absorbed in his book—Jason had been changing into a shiny robe, as directed—and a tall young man who probably had good intentions had put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

Colby had dropped the book. Holiday steampunk romance plummeted to the ground. The chair wobbled.

Jason had heard it rather than seen it—halfway into the robe—and had spun that direction. Colby had regained balance, turned his way, held up a hand: I’m fine, only surprised, not hurt.

Jason had glared at the assistant. Might’ve also flexed a muscle or two, or several, that direction. The boy, phantom-white, had dived for the book and held it out for Colby in shaky fingers.

Colby, being Colby, had thanked him, told him it wasn’t his fault, just a terribly absorbing book and an amusing moment of startlement, and then asked whether he could perhaps find a blanket or a spare wardrobe coat or something along those lines, as the set was a bit chilly. The boy had squared shoulders and accepted this quest of penance, returning with two blankets, a spare Jason-sized robe, a large overcoat, and what looked like the fashionable knit wrap one of the other assistants’d been wearing, plus a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. Colby had stared at this overflow of remorse, looked up at the young man, and then offered to share the cookies. They’d been talking about books and science fiction by the time Jason had managed to negotiate a break and run over there.

Jason said now, hands resting on Colby’s waist, a weight without demand, “Kinda thought that should be the other way around. Me, you, protection.” He threw in a quick bicep-flex for good measure. Colby had mentioned rippling muscles, earlier.

“Mmm…yes, always. But I’m taking care of you, as well.” Colby wriggled a little under his hands, not to get away but to feel it. “ _My_ hero. So what would help? For you to know I’m fine and wonderful and also very much still in the mood to be thoroughly conquered.”

Jason couldn’t not laugh. His Colby. Now and forever. “Let me think about it for a sec. You want anything? More coffee, a scone, opening that bottle of pink peppercorn mead?” He tugged Colby out toward the living room, the kitchen; he shrugged off his own jacket, helped with Colby’s, hung them temporarily on hallway hooks. They’d both lost shoes and boots already; Colby’s socks were violet-striped today against sand-hued California tile.

Colby unzipped the hoodie, baring the dancing unicorn on his shirt; he tipped his head and smiled, and the oncoming twilight danced too. “I might be a bit thirsty, in fact.”

Jason took a step into the kitchen and paused. “Literally, as in water, or are we still talking about my muscles?”

Colby’s grin got wider.

Jason took two long steps back over there and kissed him. Soundly. Hands tangling in all that fluffy hair. Colby melted contentedly against him.

“Oh, okay,” Jason said. “You do appreciate the muscles.”

“I appreciate _you_ ,” Colby said immediately. “Would you like to ensure that I’m entirely taken care of? Oh…hmm…that’s a brilliant set-up, isn’t it…”

“I love your brain. Am I your bodyguard, then? And you’re still a movie star, like the world’s biggest movie star, so basically still you, just…kinda lonely, maybe, needing some love.” He toyed with one of Colby’s hoodie’s sleeves, a question about layers; Colby started pulling it off, so Jason joined in and helped. “I’m secretly in love with you, obviously.”

“Pining.” Colby did a conspiratorial bounce on the balls of both feet. “And…let’s see…perhaps there was an accident, nothing dreadful, a minor close encounter of cars on the way home from an errand, I’m _not_ hurt, but…”

“But you _might_ be,” Jason picked up. “Or at least kinda shaken up. And it’s my job to take care of you. Bodyguard. Guarding your body. So I got you home, probably fired your driver—”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t his fault! Someone ran into us!”

“Fine. I made sure your driver knew you don’t blame him—”

“Thank you for that.”

“But something did happen.” He traced the line of Colby’s left eyebrow. “And I’m in charge of this situation, because your safety is my job and I’m taking it pretty damn seriously….um. That’s where you were going with this, right?”

“Precisely.”

“I love you, y’know.”

“I love hearing you say so. Go on, please, tell me more about you being in charge of me and my safety.”

“Got it.” He cradled Colby’s face in both hands, felt wavy chocolate silk brush his fingertips, felt Colby’s smooth skin against his palms. “You’re okay, you’re not hurt, but I’m still your bodyguard, it’s my job to make sure, okay? So I’m gonna do that. My job.”

Colby, face upturned, eyes very blue, nodded as much as he could while being held.

“Good.” Jason rubbed a thumbtip over one delicate cheekbone; when Colby blinked, long dark eyelashes swept down and up like a kiss. “I need to take care of you. To check you over. All over. Understand, Mr Kent?”

“Oh, yes.” Colby practically glowed with pleasure at the idea. “I promise I’m unharmed, but I certainly wouldn’t want to stand in the way of you doing your job. But, please…call me Colby. After all, you are taking care of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jason rumbled, “that’s kinda getting personal, Mr Kent…I really shouldn’t…being professional, in charge of your safety…but if you’re saying you’d feel safer if I said your name…”

“Yes,” Colby said. “I would, yes, please. No, ah, no need for formality. May I call you Jason?”

“Really shouldn’t,” Jason said again, deliberately half-hearted.

“But you’d like me to.”

“Yeah.” Their eyes met; Colby was clearly trying not to grin. Jason knew the feeling. Had it all the time, standing next to the man he adored. “Call me Jason. Now. I’m in charge, when it comes to your safety—”

“Didn’t you just say that line—”

“No line critiques from you. You can fix it when you turn it into the next genius screenplay. My favorite scriptwriter.” He knew that’d make Colby laugh and also get shyly happy about the compliment; it worked. “Anyway. _I’m in charge_ , when it comes to _your safety_. Got any plans to argue with that?”

“No,” Colby said meekly.

“Good. I think I don’t want you to walk anywhere.” He slid a hand to the nape of Colby’s neck, letting it rest there: just enough pressure. “Any objections to me carrying you?”

“Not at all, if you think it’s necessary?”

“I do.” He bent, employed muscles, scooped Colby up into his arms. Colby’s eyes went a bit wide, but his smile grew, and he put his head on Jason’s shoulder trustingly. Jason told him, “Good, just like that, you’re doing great, letting me do all the work, you just do what I say and let me handle this,” and carried him proprietarily off down the hall.

He _knew_ Colby liked his muscles. His muscles liked being liked. They could carry Colby around all day if asked.

He held on a little tighter just so they both could feel it, at that thought.

In their bedroom, he set Colby tenderly down atop the rainbow-and-raincloud design of the comforter. The sheets matched, in pale blue-grey with little rainbows and raindrops scattered around; he’d bought the set as a surprise, months ago. Colby had, upon walking into their bedroom to discover this, promptly requested that Jason toss him into bed for a proper exploration of sex among the weather.

Their bed itself was large enough for lots of heroic muscles, was luxurious but firm, and had a nice intricately carved headboard with lots of darkly swirling loops. Those were always nice to tie Colby’s wrists to. Not right now, though. Other plans. This scenario. And the loops and swirls got excited right along with him.

Jason crossed to the light switch, flipped it on. The evening wasn’t that dark yet—sunset was busy echoing the rainbow in streaks of light across the hills outside—but this was part of the scene. Besides, he wanted to see Colby. “I need to look at you. All over. We’re going to have to remove your clothing.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Colby said. “I mean, yes, of course. That makes sense.” He moved a hand; Jason stopped him with, “No. I’ll do it.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m not meant to move.”

“No exerting yourself. I know you’re doing okay, but there might be something wrong. Something you haven’t noticed yet.” His eyes met Colby’s, as he came back over. “I’m here to protect you. Let me do that.”

“I trust you with my life, Jason.” That was in character, Colby-as-film-star speaking to his security, and also real; truth laced that multilayered accent with seams of gold. The oceans in those movie-poster eyes were untroubled, calmly watching Jason; Colby’s posture was untroubled too, shoulders relaxed, one long cheetah-leg folded up under himself. He swung the other one, skimming the floor with violet-striped sock-toes.

Jason put out a hand, lifted Colby’s chin: a nudge just for the sake of the gesture. “I know. And I’ll guard you with mine.”

Colby gave him the gift of that smile, the fairytale prince’s smile. Sheer unwavering belief in a protector, a royal champion, a loyal bannerman. Equal commitment, flying like pennants against blue sky. “I know. Would you like to undress me, then, and check every inch of me for wholeness yourself?”

Jason, lightheaded with happiness and love, chest full of sunlight and lifted castle banners, dick absolutely upright and saluting at the thought of his prince naked, got out, “Yeah. God, I love you. And I, um, love your…holes.”

“Oh good heavens.”

“You started it. Arms up, for me. You can lift them.”

Colby did, obediently. Jason slid fingers under loose rose-pink t-shirt fabric, gathered the silly unicorn design into big hands, and eased it up. Colby, briefly muffled by the shirt, said, “I imagine as my bodyguard you’ll be taking care of…any holes in me…you might encounter.”

Jason snorted. “Thoroughly. And that was terrible.” His hands drew fabric along Colby’s arms, over smooth skin; he felt the glide of it, as he pulled Colby’s shirt up, sleeves off, leaving elegant arms bare.

Colby had put back on some weight; not quite enough, in Jason’s opinion, but the good kind, from actually eating properly and getting back to swimming in the mornings plus a few—so far—beginner-level Krav Maga workouts with Jason’s friend Evan. Colby’d wanted to do that; it’d been his idea.

The freckle near his collarbone winked with tempting mischief now. And Colby’s wrists were graceful and unafraid when Jason tossed the shirt away and closed a hand around one.

Colby’s next couple of breaths came faster, in a good way; shirtless now, he looked up at Jason from the side of the bed and licked his lips. “Ensuring I don’t get up?” His cock, Jason observed, was visibly hard: pushing up against his grey skinny jeans, as he left his wrist in Jason’s grip.

“Hmm…yeah, I am. Okay. Lie down.”

Colby lifted eyebrows at him, but did as ordered, on his back on the bed. His cock pressed upward against confines, a portrait of arousal, filthy and wonderful. He was all pale skin—marginally less pale now, sun-kissed, though not too darkly—and pert nipples and slim waist above still-fastened pants, hair a magnificent tumble of dark waves against a sky-blue pillowcase.

Jason wanted to kiss him, to dive onto him and plunge inside him, to claim him and pound into him until those big blue eyes got all molten and dreamy and that luscious voice spilled out endless words, babbling and elated and uninhibited. Or maybe just to take care of him. To touch him, and hold him, and treasure him. To make sure Colby knew how loved, how cherished, he was.

Colby chose this, with him. Him. Jason. Over and over.

Jason gulped down inexplicable wateriness. Squared determined bodyguard shoulders. “I’m going to undress you now, Mr Kent. Colby.” He let one hand brush Colby’s hip, an admission of emotion. “I want you to lie still and let me do that.”

“Yes, Jason,” Colby agreed, and settled down into the bed. Treasure-hued bedside light limned his face, his shoulder, the lines of his body; framed by familiar sheets, he was the best piece of art Jason’d ever seen.

And that artwork needed some taking care of. Jason knelt carefully between Colby’s legs—they spread further, helpfully—and trailed one finger along the top of Colby’s pants, checking for any nervousness. Colby just smiled up at him, so Jason went ahead and unbuttoned and unzipped, giving Colby’s straining shaft some relief; Jason put hands gently on Colby’s jeans and navy-blue clinging soft underwear, ready. “I need you to lift your hips for me. Just a little, not much. Don’t strain yourself.”

Colby gave him an amused look but didn’t object, just arched up and let Jason peel his clothing off, leaving him all naked and exposed, long legs and a nest of dark fuzz highlighting the gorgeous firm length of his cock, so prettily flushed, head already wet and slick. Jason’s own dick stiffened even more, aching to bury itself in tight hot sweetness. He didn’t quite ignore the need but pushed it down. Playing the role. Caring for his charge.

He paused to tug off Colby’s socks too. Colby laughed more, in the way of someone too happy to keep it all inside: in love and entertained by sock-removal.

Jason understood that feeling too. Right there in his chest. Matching.

Still mostly dressed, in the same jeans and forest-green plain shirt he’d worn to the photo shoot, he sat down beside Colby on the bed. “I’ll need to touch you.”

“Whatever you think I need,” Colby said.

Jason hovered a hand over his forearm, arrested by that answer.

“You know what I mean.” Colby nudged a knee into his. “That’s really me saying it, not just agreeing in the role. Whatever you decide I need, Jason, please. Please take care of me.”

“That’s my job.” He let his hand come to rest, gathering Colby’s up. “You tell me if anything hurts or doesn’t feel good, okay? I’m going to start here. Also, um, no moving, remember? Orders. You’re not allowed. Until I’ve made sure. For your own good.”

“I do appreciate your commitment to my well-being,” Colby agreed gravely. Entire kingdoms threw moonlit galas in the sparkle of his eyes, in the shimmer of the accent he’d never quite lost, lots of aristocratic England and Germany and France and Southern California layered like bronze petals atop each other. Like no one else ever, Jason thought; and loved this man, his man, with everything he was.

He held Colby’s fingers in his. Long and slender, they fit against Jason’s own perfectly, into Jason’s palm, into slow gentle inspection of each one. He ran his other hand up over Colby’s wrist, touched the back, turned Colby’s arm and traced the veins under fragile skin. Colby breathed in, quick and joyous; his arm stayed quiescent and pliant in Jason’s hold.

Jason skimmed fingers along sensitive skin, up Colby’s forearm, purposefully light. Colby opened his mouth, closed it, and got a little more wide-eyed, drawn in by the touch.

“Good,” Jason said, “this looks good, so far. You’re not in any pain?”

“No,” Colby murmured. His cock twitched, and a drop beaded up at the tip, eager and shiny. “No…Jason…please…”

“No. Thorough, you said. And I promise I will be.” He set Colby’s arm down, neatly in place at his side; Colby did not move at all, being good, following commands.

Jason stroked a hand over Colby’s shoulder, next. Along Colby’s collarbone, with that enticing mischievous freckle. He stayed in character, or halfway: professional and practical, but adoring Colby Kent. Which he did. Entirely.

He reached for the other arm, lifted it, caressed and checked it with gaze and hands. Colby’s breathing picked up, and he licked his lips again, panting.

“Shh,” Jason instructed, “no exertion, I said. Just lie still, right where I put you, until I’m satisfied.”

“Oh god,” Colby said, as if words were inadvertent, “oh god, Jason, I—I want—I want you so badly, please—”

“No.” He touched Colby’s throat, checking the rhythm of that pulse. Colby moaned and went silent at the feeling of Jason’s hand on his neck. Jason finished counting, said softly, “That’s a little faster than I’d like, maybe you _were_ a little scared, shaken up, all of that, in the accident? It’s nice and strong, though. You’re doing fine. How’s your head feeling? Does anything hurt here?”

His fingers caressed Colby’s temple, asking, dominant and loving. Colby shivered all over, and got out, “No…no, nothing hurts, I feel perfectly…splendid, in fact…oh, Jason, you’re so very good at taking care of me like this…”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“And why I hired you,” Colby managed, eyes wide and dark with pleasure at the teasing and the role-play.

“Exactly.” Jason rested a hand over Colby’s chest, keeping him in place, though Colby hadn’t tried to move. “You trust me with your safety. I’m honored. And I’m going to fulfill that trust. Every…inch of it.”

Colby seemed tempted to snicker at that line, but looked at Jason’s hand on him, large and controlling atop his chest, and just said, “Yes please.” Another bead of desire formed at the slit of his cock, and another; Colby tended to grow wet, to leak, to get slick and messy with anticipation. Jason loved that: the knowledge of how much Colby did want this, did want him.

He ran his hand over Colby’s smooth chest. He rubbed his thumb over Colby’s nipples, one at a time: pink and tempting, they stood out even more with some attention. “How about these? Sensitive?” He knew they were, more than his own.

“Yes, Jason. Very…very much, at the moment.”

“Good. They should be. You’re doing fine.” Lower, hand pressing gently over Colby’s stomach, delicate areas, places that Jason’s stunt-person brain knew could be wounded. Of course Colby wasn’t hurt and they were playing; the firmness of those swimmer’s muscles and the sun-gilded expanse of skin made him want to lean down and lick every bare inch.

He kept his hand where it was. “How about here? Still no pain, nothing hurting?” Below his hand, Colby’s arousal begged for caresses: rigid and flushed, trickling need in a pearlescent stream.

Colby whispered, “Jason…”

“You need to answer.”

“I…I…oh yes, I mean no, I mean I’m fine, it’s…it almost _does_ hurt, needing you—should I say it does, if you want to—”

“No. We’ll get to that.” He moved on to Colby’s legs, next.

Colby had long graceful legs; too long, Colby himself had complained more than once, self-deprecatingly waving a pair of too-short pants. That was maybe technically true as far as average-person proportions, but in an impressive sort of way: completely dazzling in red-carpet flair or stylish boots or, about two weeks ago, knee-high scarlet leather that Colby’d secretly borrowed from a Broadway costume designer friend.

They’d had to get those cleaned before returning them. Jason began with Colby’s foot and ankle, lifted and handled the way he had with Colby’s arms, scrutinized and cherished. Colby whimpered a little with frustrated yearning but subsided as Jason caressed his calf, working leisurely upward.

He stroked Colby’s thigh. Hip. The crease where they met. Not coming any nearer to Colby’s cock. “This feels all right. But I’ll check your other leg too.”

Colby just moaned, long and low and accepting, leg staying obediently right where Jason set it down.

“Hmm.” Jason stroked Colby’s other leg, kept hands rubbing his thigh, soothing. “Might need you to keep talking to me, Colby, let me know you’re with me. In case you hit your head or something.”

“I can’t even _think_ ,” Colby protested.

“Sounds like something I should maybe be concerned about.”

“Oh, no, you know what I mean…yes, you do like it when I talk…my head’s full of clouds, though.” Colby blinked at him. “Spinning a bit. Not literally, that is, I’m all right, I only feel like…like some sort of rainshower. Gathering. Whirling round. All sort of…heavy but floating. Liquid. Wet. You like me getting all wet for you.”

“I do, baby. Colby. Sorry, getting too familiar. If I’m working for you. Your bodyguard.”

“I like getting all wet for you too,” Colby informed him, voice getting less coherent, eyes more full of rainbows. “The way you touch me…the way I want you, it’s not like anyone else, not ever…like I’m so very much yours, all messy and dripping and opened up, and you _like_ me like that, and I love it…”

Bringing Colby Kent to babbling euphoric subspace was one of the profoundest joys of Jason’s life. He broke character to kiss Colby’s hip real quick, and sat back up. “We still doing the role-play thing, or you want me to just fuck you, sweetheart?”

“Oh…I don’t know.” Colby blinked at him a few more times, trying to focus. “I’m liking this, I think. You know I like being good for you. I like belonging to you and feeling safe. And denial…I like not coming until you tell me.”

“Because you’re being good for me. And I’m taking care of you.”

“You’re so good,” Colby whispered. “So good at that…at me…”

“I want to be.” So much. So badly. He slid a hand, not to Colby’s poor neglected cock, but to the twin weights beneath. He gathered them, fondled them, heard the resultant moan of desire. “So, okay…if we’re keeping this going…how does this feel? Still good?”

“Like I need more,” Colby told him. “Like I need…something…some more help, I think…”

Jason, who’d had an idea, said, “Denial, I think you said? I think I need to check all of you. Your back, I think. I need you to turn over so I can keep doing that. And get up on your hands and knees.”

Colby’s mouth dropped open. Eyes huge. Betrayed—not seriously, but he had plainly expected a different sort of help as the next step—and quivering.

“I’ll help you move,” Jason added. “Don’t try it without me.”

“Oh god,” Colby said, “oh god oh god oh god, Jason, _please_ —”

“No. Not yet. We’re making sure you’re okay, first. I’m in charge, you said. Come here.”

He eased Colby over, directing the motion: in command, unquestionably so, settling Colby’s limbs where he wanted them. Colby went readily, submissive and slack and almost alarmingly languid. Jason leaned down to check on him. Colby murmured, voice gone languid too, drowsiness in castle ramparts, “You’re taking care of me…” He sounded tipsy, hazy, drunk on Jason’s control of him.

“Yes.” Jason kissed his shoulder. “Always, baby. Always.”

He’d let the endearment slip out again. Colby didn’t notice. That was okay.

They were okay.

He coaxed Colby up to hands and knees, mostly because he was honestly unsure whether Colby would end up coming without permission, from the friction of his cock rubbing against the bed. Jason wouldn’t mind—kind of an awesome compliment, getting Colby to lose control that completely—but Colby would try to apologize after if that happened.

He ran a hand over Colby’s back, loving the shape of him. “I don’t see anything…nothing that looks hurt, or bruised…how’re you feeling? Any strain?” Colby’s head drooped, body leaning against Jason now for support; Colby’s cock swung heavily, jutting out into only thin air, no relief at all. His desire was more than drops now, a long drawn-out ribbon; it unspooled all the way to the bed, silver in the bedside lamplight.

“Colby,” Jason said. “If I’m your bodyguard…if I’m taking care of you…I need you to talk to me. Does everything feel good?”

“Please,” Colby said, “please, yes, good, it’s good, I’m good, it’s feeling so good, I want…this, need this, need you, this, always…”

“I love you,” Jason said. “I know we said that. As your bodyguard, this scene, and also me. I’m in love with you. I can’t lose you. I’ll do anything I can, forever, to keep you from getting hurt. I love you. I want you to know.”

Colby whispered, swaying, “I know.” Light from their lamp spilled along his spine, his arms, the curl of his hair, the nape of his neck.

“Do you?”

“I do…I love you. Jason.” Colby sighed, shivered; his cock jerked between his thighs, dripping more. “So good…in every role…will you finish taking care of me?”

“Close, baby. I promise.” He gripped Colby’s legs, spread them more: ran a finger over the line of Colby’s ass. Parting lovely curves. “Just checking on this for you…making sure…” He could see Colby’s hole, bared for inspection, the beckoning furl of it a little loose, a little easy for him, from so much thorough use just a few hours ago. “You’re doing so well, just let me check on this…”

He rubbed at the rim—nothing more, not without lube—and Colby gave a tiny cry and tried to push back, thrusting against Jason’s index finger, wanting penetration.

“No,” Jason said, “no, no, hang on, we’re not hurting you, you can wait, be good for me, baby, okay? Colby—no, be good, I said.”

Colby stopped trying to move but nearly collapsed, arms trembling, breaths small and sobbing.

Jason caught him and turned him over—Colby didn’t always like being taken from behind, old less consensual scars lingering; sometimes that position was okay, but not every time, and Jason didn’t feel like pushing—and got him settled again on his back, cock pointing up, stomach smeared with his own eagerness.

Colby’s eyes were open but unfocused, ecstatic, full of sugar and clouds; Colby’s lips were parted gently, wet where he’d licked them at some point. He lay where Jason had put him, utterly trusting, utterly surrendered, head rolling to watch what Jason chose to do with him next.

Jason’s whole body pulsed with want, a bright fierce piercing sort of want. He needed to be inside Colby, to feel Colby against him and around him and with him. Right now. That second.

He yanked off clothing, not caring where it landed. He grabbed the lube from earlier, satin and slippery. Slickness on himself, on his dick and his hand. On Colby’s hole, as muscles yielded and opened up and gave way for him. Colby’s body knew him and knew this; that small fluttering opening had been so well claimed by Jason’s cock already today.

He made sure Colby was loose enough, wet enough, for no hurt at all; he moved between Colby’s thighs, running hands along them, and nudged the head of his shaft against Colby’s body, fat flushed thickness pressing forward.

Colby moaned his name. Jason. Yes.

Jason thrust deeper, slid into him, felt the tightness and the clench and the heat. He gathered Colby up against him, under him, and kissed Colby’s parted lips and slipped his tongue into Colby’s mouth, mimicking thrusts; and Colby moved helplessly beneath him, body arching, rippling, reacting with unguarded need.

He pulled back just to gaze down, in awe.

He cradled Colby’s head when it threatened to loll. He swiped two fingers through Colby’s dripping need and then put those fingers into Colby’s mouth. He knew Colby liked that, being so full, having things to suck on and mouth at, being claimed everywhere.

Colby suckled at his fingers, uncoordinated, mumbling Jason’s name some more around the occupation. Jason felt him, felt all of him, and needed to come, needed to fill Colby up with himself, needed to see Colby come too, lost to bliss.

Colby’s cock, trapped between them, made them both wetter. Slick with want and sweat and quivering at the brink.

His hips sped up. He pounded into Colby. He knew the angles, the thrusts, that worked best; he did that, and then did that over and over, unable to stop if he’d wanted to, swept up in the rapture in Colby’s face, the sensations of Colby surrounding him.

He rasped out, between short breaths, “Colby. Look at me.”

Colby did, eyes so luminous blue that Jason’s next breath stuttered and stopped.

And Jason begged, because it _was_ begging, an order and a plea, needing Colby to feel this good, to know how much Jason loved him, _everything_ , “Come for me, like this, go on…”

Colby sobbed Jason’s name once more, and did: expression abruptly transcendent, blank with rapture, whole body arching up and stiffening and suffused by release. His climax poured out between their bodies, hot and slippery.

Jason groaned, drew back, slammed into him—and felt the peak like a wave, like a mirror of Colby’s ecstasy, like the release of Colby’s rainshower from earlier. Cleansing, annealing, it swept through him and carried him off to white radiance.

When he could think, he realized he was lying squarely atop the man he loved; his bulk pressed Colby into the mattress, and his fingers lay over Colby’s mouth, wet against slack lips. Jason hastily eased himself up—not too fast, no sudden movements—and took some of his own weight on elbows, balancing. Colby didn’t move for a second, eyes open but not focused, not back yet. Jason breathed in, swallowed love like a spear-point, felt it lodge in his heart.

Like an anchor. The kind he wanted, needed, held onto. This man, who he loved and would care for.

Colby made a quiet vaguely confused sound, and one hand reached up to fasten around Jason’s arm. His body quivered, clenched, clutched at Jason’s length inside him. His eyes were still all soft and hazy and submissive, simply floating on emotion and instinct. Jason bent and kissed him, tender as a vow; Colby tried to kiss back, clumsy and almost innocent, parting his lips for whatever Jason wanted.

Jason bumped their noses together. Nuzzled Colby’s cheek. “Hey. Hey, come on, baby, wake up for me a little, okay? You want to come back and talk to me? I’d like it if you could. Just checking in.”

Colby’s mouth opened, but no audible words came out; possibly he thought they had. That happened sometimes.

Jason cupped his cheek with the less sticky hand. “Didn’t get that, sweetheart, say it again?”

Colby’s eyebrows tugged together a fraction. “…Jason.”

“Yeah, still me. Still right here.” He thought Colby might want him to move—too much weight, maybe—but he didn’t want to lose any closeness if his beautiful exhausted other half needed that. “You doing okay? Color?”

“Green. You…I…I feel so…”

“You want me to give you some space for a sec? Room to breathe?”

“No!” Colby actually reached up and held onto him, surprisingly hard. “No, no, I…please…please don’t go. Please don’t move. _Jason_.”

“I won’t. I won’t, I swear, shhh, I’m right here, not going anywhere, you’re okay.” He hoped so. He kissed Colby’s nose because it was right there and kissable. “You just hold on if you need to. I’m here for you to hold on to.”

Colby breathed in, breathed out. Focused on him a little more. And then on his own hands, clinging to Jason’s arms. “…I am. Holding on. Good heavens.”

 _That_ sounded exactly like Colby; Jason hid sudden relieved riotous laughter in Colby’s hair and the pillow.

“I don’t even recall doing that.” Colby didn’t move, though. Just lessened the grip, flattened fingers and palms over Jason’s biceps. “I recall wanting to. Touching you, having you everywhere, the weight of you, atop me, inside me….” He wriggled a fraction between Jason and the bed. “I remember never wanting that to go away.”

“Well,” Jason offered, testing, “ _never_ might be kinda difficult, we should probably shower sometime…”

Colby laughed.

“But yeah.” He kissed Colby’s nose again. “I know how you feel. Me too.”

“Was that…” Colby blushed slightly, but not much: the shyness wasn’t about the physical. “Was it all good? For you? I feel wonderful.”

“Yeah.” Jason lay there atop him, holding him; had no words, only the yes. “Yeah. That was…like you said. Wonderful.”

“Frothy,” Colby said. “Sea foam. Whipped cream. Coffee. Cocktails with champagne and sparkles. I…oh, all right, certain parts of me might be a bit tired. Could you…”

“Oh, fuck, of course—sorry—”

“No, I love feeling you, come back and hold me—”

“Totally, just let me—” Taking care of Colby. More. With tender clean-up and hands that all at once trembled a hairsbreadth. Too big. Too heavy against intimate pink and vulnerable muscle and the slick smears of release. Colby had stopped talking and closed both eyes, lying sprawled across their bed: legs spread willingly, body stretched out against the pale blue bedding backdrop.

Too much weight, at the end? Maybe some soreness? Colby admitting to tiredness might mean something bigger didn’t feel right—and Colby wasn't looking at him—

Colby said, eyes still shut, “I’m testing this one.”

“This…what? Sorry.”

Colby opened one eye. Blue snuck into Jason’s heart and planted flowers. “I told you once I didn’t like blindfolds, not being able to see who was touching me, all of that.”

“Yeah, you said. I remember.” He rested hands on Colby’s thighs. That prompted a smile, which calmed Jason’s heart down even more. “You were testing that. Just now.”

“Mmm. Just lying here, feeling you…not seeing you…but knowing it’s you. Your hands on me. Cleaning me up, taking care of me. _Only_ taking care of me.” Colby opened the other eye. “You’d never hurt me.”

Jason said, “ _Fuck_ no.”

“I know you wouldn’t. It wasn’t a question. Which was why I wanted to feel you.” Colby paused. More flowers popped up. Springtime and bluebells danced. “I liked it. I think. A little. I’m not certain I could handle proper blindfolds, but something about this…about being here and not needing to see, simply knowing that I’m in your hands, letting everything be dark and quiet and sweet and sort of like the coffee, if that makes any sense at all…that was nice.”

“Like the coffee,” Jason said. “Frothy. Airy. But also…dark and rich. Don’t make me explain your metaphor, but I get it, I think.” He stretched out next to Colby, draped an arm around blue-eyed exultant word-rambling, fit their bodies together. “I _like_ guarding your body.”

Colby dissolved into outright wordless laughter. Head to toe. Shaking with it. Nestled against Jason’s bulwark. Sticky and sated and bathed in triumphant bedroom lamplight.

“I love your fantasies.” He trailed fingers along Colby’s spine, idly memorizing the shape and feel. “I could do this one again.”

“I’m in favor. I’d even be up for having pretend injuries and letting you play with some restraints.” Colby’s arm found its way around Jason’s waist. Jason’s whole body loved that. “Feel free to gently tie up any arms or legs you’d like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I think so.” Colby’s hand stroked Jason’s back. “My bodyguard. My hero. That was…good, wasn’t it? For both of us.”

“Yeah.” More cuddling. Tighter. No objections from Colby, who cheerfully tangled tired legs into Jason’s and then eyed Jason’s mouth and dove in for a kiss, complete with a small bite at Jason’s lower lip. Jason, in the wake of this, raised eyebrows at him. “Feeling like all your excited beverages?”

“Yes. I love that you agree with me that cream and coffee absolutely feel excitement, have I told you that? I wonder whether I can make something with sea salt. Salted caramel. Some sort of cake with coffee and caramel and whipped frosting. I think we’ve been…physically active enough, I believe you said, to deserve cake today.”

Jason snorted, said, “So like every day?” and shifted a leg so he could feel Colby’s thigh and knee and calf move against his.

God, he loved Colby Kent. So much. So much he could come apart with it: a bursting-outward, sun and rain and salted caramel, coffee-flavored kisses in the morning, kind of love. Photo shoots and scars, publicity and press and the past and the future: they could handle every last one of those things. They might even have some fun with the handling. Like this afternoon. Wonderful, to borrow Colby's word. Full of excitement. Frothy.

He thought that he'd never be able to look at a copy of that magazine, that photo shoot, without thinking of this moment. He thought about Colby having similar thoughts. _Definitely_ fun.

Their bed was a disaster; he’d have to wash that comforter, with its rainbow-and-raincloud design. He didn’t mind. The bed didn’t mind either. It loved making Colby happy too; and Jason lay there just letting all the happiness seep into all his cracks for a while.

The light had changed. Sundown. California evening came in like dusty sage and wildflowers, nodding, violet, pale blue, not really cold at all. The familiar shapes of their dresser with the steampunk-inspired handles, and the bedroom bookshelf, and the chair-arm where Colby’s unicorn shirt’d landed, settled like sweetness into his bones. Like, yeah, caramel. With sea salt. Some spice. Some playfulness.

He did feel good. Better. Lighter. Colby’s brilliantly ridiculous role-play scenario had patched up every tiny fracture-point that’d fretted about dropped books and startlement on set. Because Colby Kent was a fucking genius, and Colby knew him the way no one ever had, and Colby loved him.

Colby _loved_ him. Jason, knowing that fact all over again, wanted to jump up and down and throw punches in the air. Or help bake a cake full of coffee flavor and whipped cream. Or contemplate slings and knots and restraints and ways to keep those gorgeous long legs suspended and spread while he lavished attention between them.

He said, “How do you feel about me being your doctor, while you’re maybe not supposed to walk yet, and I’m here to check on you? I’d, um, have to keep your legs all nice and immobile, but also take care of any, um, pain you might be feeling…any, y’know, _needs_ you might have.”

Colby looked at him with rock-solid delight, unshakeable as magical fantasy-castle foundations, and inquired, “How soon do you think we might find a doctor’s coat that’ll fit your shoulders?”


	12. friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Colby meets some of Jason's friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd meant this one to be one of the short pieces for the last chapter! And then I was writing, and it grew to over 7k, and... *sighs deeply* Thirteen. Thirteen chapters. I swear.

Jason, in the driveway, hopped off the motorcycle and held out a hand for Colby. Colby, eyes sparkling, caught the hand and swung a long leg over the bike and ended up in Jason’s arms, which had been exactly the plan.

Family noise and pool-party splashes bounced off the airy blue California sky. Barbecue and smoke and spice wafted over. The house—a big laid-back family rambunctiousness—beckoned them over with red-tiled welcome.

The house belonged to Jason’s friend Brick, occasional former stunt-guy partner or adversary depending on the film; the house currently hosted a small Saturday party, just for fun, not too many people but most of them loudly exuberant about jumping off buildings or falling ten stories onto a mat or punching on-camera evil henchmen in a hallway. Laughter waltzed out to the front yard, carried on a breeze.

Jason looked at Colby. Colby pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair, only made himself even more adorable and fluffy, and put his head on one side. “You’re worried about me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, and you don’t want to be.”

“I’m not worried about _you_.”

“I wouldn’t’ve come if I didn’t think I could handle it. I’d tell you.”

“I know you’re doing okay.” He stowed helmets, jackets; he took a deep breath, eyed the carrier that held homemade chocolate-chip and caramel-chip cookies, straightened shoulders. Turned back to Colby. “I know you’d tell me. I just…”

Colby’s smile tugged at the corners of that expressive mouth. In jeans and a simple blue shirt, pushing up long sleeves, he might’ve been almost ordinary: drop-dead gorgeous, yeah, always, but not necessarily one of the world’s biggest movie stars. Just a guy, Jason’s boyfriend and semi-official fiancé, fantastic at baking desserts, mildly turned on by the rumble of a bike between his legs and his body pressed up against Jason’s, out and about for a weekend party with friends.

He wasn’t ordinary. Colby Kent would never be that.

The blue in his eyes caught the light, under rumpled brown waves. He waited for Jason to finish, not pushing.

“I just,” Jason said. “I don’t want you to have to…they’re kind of…also I sort of never brought a guy around…they’ll love you. I love you. Never mind.”

“I do understand.” Colby reached out, took both Jason’s hands, simply held them. “It’s not simply about me. It is, of course—we know about me and, well, the difficulties of me—but it’s also important for you. It’s different when it’s not theoretical, bringing someone to meet your friends. But I’m here for you, as well. The way you’re here for me.”

Jason stood there in Brick’s driveway, sunshine warm on his shoulders, and held Colby’s hands. Was purely in love.

“We’ll be all right.” Colby lifted one of Jason’s hands, kissed it, swung both of their hands lightly after. “If I need space I’ll tell you, and if you need me to do or say something—or to announce loudly that you’re splendidly accomplished in bed—you’ll let me know. We can handle anything, together.”

They could. Jason exhaled. And found himself grinning.

He hadn’t been exactly _worried_. Maybe…alert. Aware. In general. Of things.

Colby could deal with crowds and noise and some handshakes or back-slaps. That was possible. He’d never completely enjoy all that, but was certainly capable of functioning at a party, even more so when he knew in advance what to expect and could be prepared. Besides, Jason would be there. And they’d head home the second Colby wanted to. So that would be fine.

The second question of the afternoon wasn’t that big a deal either. Most of his friends and acquaintances knew about his bisexuality—he’d been out for years now, and he’d been quietly noncommittal about it before that—and yeah, there’d been some backlash at first, some jokes that weren’t really funny about enjoying close-quarters fight scenes and wrestling and guys’ bodies all over his. But that was old news, and the guys making those jokes wouldn’t be here. That would be fine too. Jason glanced over at Brick’s side door, the one that led to the backyard and the green grass and the pool and palm trees.

He’d been surprised and touched by the message. Not a large party. A couple friends plus families. Nothing too overwhelming. Brick’s text hadn’t said so outright, but Jason got the idea: _keeping things small_ , it’d read, _u can bring ur hot boyfriend & also cookies, Chris says choc chip pls_.

Brick’s wife Christa had worked on _King’s Court_ back when a younger Colby Kent had starred in that miniseries as a flamboyant secretly gay historical-fiction monarch. Colby had, according to well-substantiated industry rumor, brought in homemade baked goods at the start of every week of shooting.

Jason had snorted and told Colby to ignore the current request if he’d rather not bother. Colby had said immediately, “Oh, no, of course I can do that, I do like my chocolate-chip recipe, we should have everything we need.”

Brick had been one of the people who’d checked in, months ago, during _Steadfast_. During the worst day of Jason’s life. When Colby had been injured, in the hospital, back covered in an ugly scrawl of purple-black.

Brick and Evan, who’d also be here today, had wanted to meet Colby earlier. When _Steadfast_ ’s final shots had brought everyone back to LA, the two of them had suggested hanging out at a local craft brewery. Colby hadn’t been able to, then.

Jason remembered that too, standing in place in the present. Colby had wanted to. Had meant to say yes. Had been having a less good day. Echoes of trauma, feeling trapped, being surrounded in a grocery store. For most movie stars this was an annoyance, a frustration, maybe even something that required security if they were famous enough. Colby was that famous, but the wounds in question were more intimate and went deep.

Jason had left him at home, tucked into blankets with a script to play with, because Colby had told him to go. To see friends. To enjoy himself.

He’d gone, and he’d had fun, and he’d explained that Colby wasn’t feeling great; Brick and Evan had exchanged glances. They knew, they said. A little. Some of the stories. Colby’s ex’s drunken rants. The undeniable fact that Colby Kent, never really much for movie-star parties, had briefly tried to live that life, with said ex, and then had more or less stopped going out at all.

Jason had understood, reading Brick’s text invitation, that the part about keeping things small—and at someone’s house, not out in public—was absolutely a message. He’d had to clear his throat and blink a few times.

He hadn’t known how much he’d wanted this. His friends. Not all the massive range of acquaintances, but the ones who’d been here. Who’d tell him to bring his hot boyfriend over and not bat an eye about bisexuality or dating someone who generally played the decadent lounging king instead of the battle-hardened soldier. Which also was unfair; Colby, while not an action star or a stuntman, was the strongest person Jason knew.

He said, “I know you can handle anything, you always can,” and leaned in for a kiss. Sunlight tangled in Colby’s hair, shorter than it’d been for filming but long enough to tumble into eyes, to cling to cheekbones when wet, to be looped around Jason’s fingers and lovingly played with in bed. “Okay. Let’s introduce you to the hurricane.”

 _Hurricane_ proved to be exaggerating. The backyard, with its spectacular view out over the valley, wasn’t crowded: maybe six or seven adults, all people Jason recognized, and innumerable half-grown children flinging themselves and each other in and out of the pool. He picked out Brick’s kids, Maya and Alex, but wasn’t too sure about the rest; they all seemed to be having fun, though. Barbecue and grilled corn and macaroni and cheese and salads of various types laid siege to a table; several pairs of eyes swung their way as they came in, and a few arms waved. Colby, suddenly nervous but trying hard not to be—Jason could tell, though he guessed no one else could—put on a smile.

Christa, tall and blonde as the Viking warrior she’d been portraying lately, ran over and pounced on cookies. “Jason! And Colby! And baked goods! Colby, sorry about that, you didn’t have to make anything, never listen to my husband. Oh—you wouldn’t remember, but we’ve met before, ages ago! On—”

“ _King’s Court_ ,” Colby filled in. “I entirely remember. You were in…three episodes, was it? You had one of the best character introductions, fighting in that tournament and then kissing Lady Eloise after you won. Just beautiful sword work, I thought, like dancing. I loved that whole storyline. And your home is lovely; thank you for the invitation.”

Christa looked at him, looked at Jason, and said, “I’ll fight you for him, I’m good with a broadsword, you heard him.”

“Unfair contest,” Jason said. “You’d win. And he’s already engaged to me.”

And Colby said, “As your former fictional king I should point out that Jason, as the challenged party, gets the choice of weaponry, so perhaps we should just go with feasting instead?”

Christa beamed. And took the whole box of cookies, pointed them at drinks, and went off to settle a dispute among children about water-slide rights and taking turns.

Jason plopped an arm over Colby’s shoulders, wanting to feel him. “Thirty seconds, and that’s one person in love with you already.”

Colby gave him a beautifully wry sideways glance, tempered with affection. “She’s nice.”

“Yeah, she is. Want to meet a couple other people?”

They did. Brick ran out from behind the grill to throw arms around Jason, which turned into a wrestling hold, which ended in a goodnatured stand-off on the grass. Jason, grinning, accepted the hand of truce and rolled to his feet. “Skipping leg day again?”

“Fuck you,” Brick said contentedly, “Mr Big-Shot Dramatic Actor. Remember when I punched you for real during _John Kill 2_? Right in the face. God, that was awesome.”

“If you mean when I got to throw you off a bridge,” Jason said, “yeah, it was. Hey, your wife challenged me to a duel, that cool with you?”

“Fine with me. She’ll kick your ass.” Brick dusted off grass and radiated welcome at Colby with every inch of namesake solid muscle. “Hey, Hot Boyfriend, nice to meet you in person, Jason only talks about you every other word, it’s disgusting. Or is it Hot Fiancé now? You guys make that official?”

Colby, wide-eyed but willing, offered, “We haven’t made a formal announcement, but yes, among us. Jason asked and I said yes. Did you really punch him in the face? And would you happen to know the story about Jason breaking two toes on that set? He would only tell me that it involved a pigeon and it was embarrassing.”

Brick’s whole face transformed with glee. “You and I are going to have so much fun. Let me tell you the pigeon story. Right now.”

“It was fucking _stupid_ ,” Jason tried, not so much a protest as resignation. They were getting along. He’d wanted that. “It came out of nowhere when I was running up those steps.”

“He kicked the pigeon,” Brick said, with satisfaction.

“I tried _not_ to kick the pigeon! Which was why I tripped! I don’t kick birds!”

“I absolutely need to know this story,” Colby said. “Especially if my future husband has a tendency to lose battles with pigeons.”

“I do _not_ ,” Jason muttered. “I’m finding your beer and drinking all of it. Colby, want anything? Chris makes dangerous margaritas, or there’s lemonade, or Brick’s good whiskey, I’m completely fine with opening that.”

Colby said yes to a margarita, and Jason went in search of drinks before more pigeon-related details could happen. He said hi to a few people along the way, accepted joking congratulations about the success of _Steadfast_ and his career choices and his film-star idol boyfriend, warded off friendly jabs from elbows and in one case a plastic fork, and felt a weight dissolve itself from his shoulders.

Hadn’t been a big weight. Just…there. And fading. In sunshine, with a friendly shoulder-punch, with a beer someone put into his hand.

He’d hung out at this house before, with this group. He fit in here. Muscles and memories and friends who knew about training days and choreography and harnesses and the kind of pride that came with a long day’s work, full of physical exertion, and the knowledge that maybe nobody’d see their faces on camera but the movie couldn’t happen without them.

He wandered back Colby’s direction, balancing drinks and two cookies. He’d limit himself as far as the beer; he had to get them home, and also he was keeping an eye on Colby’s comfort level. Seemed fine so far, but still.

A hand appeared out of thin air and made a stretch for one cookie. Jason’s reflexes kicked in.

“Not bad,” Evan judged, “you’re still pretty fast when you want to be,” and folded arms, smirking. Tall—not Jason’s height, but tall compared to the average person—and flexible and dark-haired and dark-eyed, he could be deceptively cute when smiling and flashing adorable dimples. Jason, who’d been on the receiving end of Krav Maga and gymnastics and various other skill sets, had learned not to trust the adorableness. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” Jason said, and then, more seriously, meaning the words, “Great, actually. Thanks.” He wanted to be honest; out of everyone, Evan might be both his closest friend and the one who made tiny insect-legs of guilt poke at his shoulders, though not as much the latter anymore. He’d mostly gotten over that, thanks in part to Evan’s calmness about it.

Evan Richards was, of course, Charlie’s younger brother. Charlie, who’d drowned on that film set—doing a stunt that shouldn’t’ve been dangerous—who’d been older than both of them and always merrily competent, who’d been among the first to come over to the Mirelli household and help out after Jason’s father’s accident—

Jason had been on that set. Had had plans, in fact, to have lunch with Charlie, who he adored like an older brother who could pin him eight times out of ten. He’d finished his own morning’s shooting— _Adrenaline Spike_ , about which Charlie would no doubt mock him, jumping out of stunt-guy background to leading-role status, even if it was a popcorn action thriller—and had arrived early. Or too late. Already too late even as he ran. As he tasted chlorine and water and horror like slow-motion drugging numbness.

That’d been years ago. Practically another life. He knew Evan didn’t blame him. He knew, the way they all knew, how easily everything could go wrong in a heartbeat, a breath.

That comprehension couldn’t stop the prickly claws. Not often, but occasionally. When he caught a glimpse of Charlie in Evan’s grin, head-tilt, sense of humor.

If he’d walked over there sooner, if he’d run faster, if he’d stayed a stuntman instead of taking a different role, if he’d been there and also working on that set—

Evan, more than anyone, had known how he’d felt when Colby’d fallen from the cliff in the rain. Had understood that stunned frozen shock to the heart, in the first second.

Colby had recovered. And Evan, hearing the news from California, had called to check on him. On them.

To talk, or to be there if Jason needed to talk. During those first awful hours when they hadn’t been sure how badly Colby’s back had been injured, or how well he’d recover. And after. Whatever Jason needed.

Years ago, before, he likely wouldn’t’ve said Evan was his closest friend. They hadn’t known each other that well, on good but casual terms, and Evan had been Charlie’s _younger_ brother and consequently easy to pick on or joke around with. Evan these days had a reputation for fantastically precise stunt work, attention to detail, and the kind of thoughtful patience that’d made his skills as a fight choreographer and coordinator in demand all over Hollywood.

Evan also knew him and his emotions better than just about anyone, given the past and grief and mourning and coping mechanisms. Well, anyone except for Colby. But no one else was Colby, who’d smiled and rambled about character motivations and talked Jason right into a swimming pool, where he’d lost his heart and found a future.

He said again, “Things’re great,” and couldn’t not glance over at his aforementioned heart, now perched on a chair by Brick and the grill, laughing at something Brick’d said. “How was Prague?”

“Fantastic. I love superhero movies, and I love getting to run around medieval streets in a cape, and I love being with—I mean, I love that it’s like the fourth film we’ve done, so we’ve got really good rhythm, y’know? We know how we fit—like, um, how _all_ our people move, what they can do, how they’ll react.” Evan matched his footsteps. “You should totally come join us. Play a supervillain. Big and menacing.”

“I’d think about it. Never done that one.” Colby might appreciate a cape. Costumes. Fantasy. “Would I have to fight you?”

“Scared?”

“You wish.” They skirted hurtling dripping-wet children. Jason said, “Now that you’re back, want to help me build some new bookshelves?”

“Don’t tell me John Kill’s afraid of furniture assembly.”

“Don’t make me arm-wrestle you.”

“Only if you want to lose. Anyway, sure. Just say when.”

“I’d do it myself, but I want to surprise him. Maybe Tuesday, when he’s having a last-minute wedding-planning brunch with Jill and Andy. Not our wedding, I mean, Andy’s, in like three weeks.”

“Cool. You look happy, y’know.”

Jason took a breath, let it out. Met Evan’s eyes. “I am.”

“Good. I’m happy for you.”

“…yeah. Thanks.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Come meet Colby. I won’t tell him you tried to steal his cookie.”

They went. Colby started to get up from the chair; Jason handed drinks off to Evan, flung arms around his other half, and yanked him in close and kissed him. Shamelessly. Heedless of the cookies.

Brick whistled at them. Christa and a couple other people applauded. Evan laughed, though he was also smiling, very small and self-directed, as if thinking about something or someone. Jason made a mental note to ask about that later.

He held out his rescued bounty. “Caramel or chocolate chip?”

Colby took the caramel one. His cheeks were pink, in the wake of the public proclamation of kissing, but he looked thoroughly happy. “I adore you. I’ve been learning all sorts of things. Not only about you—though I’m a bit worried regarding the next time we’re in London, considering the pigeon density—”

Evan snickered. Jason kicked him, and took back the margarita and gave it to Colby.

“—but also about all the work and coordination involved in epic television fantasy battles, and how much care and preparation goes into being the leader of a troop of orcs.” Colby nibbled at caramel sweetness. His hair, striped by sun, was caramel too, and chocolate, and luscious. “I really do have such respect for everything all of you do; I can’t imagine how hard the training must be, or how proud you must be of it all. I’ve done falls down stairs and sliding down a hallway and diving out of a tower window, and even that left me positively covered in bruises. I’m just in awe.”

“Chris and I are adopting him,” Brick said. “You can take Maya and Alex home instead. Fair trade?”

“Your offspring are shooting each other with water guns and yelling _die, swamp monster_ , so no, thanks.” The beer was good, nice and dark and toasty. “When do you start up filming again? You’ve got a little bit of a break, right?”

“Yeah, for a couple weeks. We’re taking the swamp monsters to Disneyland next weekend, if you want to join us. Colby’s family now, so he’s included automatically.”

“Can’t. Wedding planning stuff. Not ours! Colby’s a groomsman.”

“Hmm,” Colby said, around a sip of margarita. “Oh, that’s delicious. I’d love to talk to Christa about recipes, if she’d like that. I think I have a contact or two over there—that is, I’ve met a few Disney people, both as an occasional producer and also, er, at one or two of my father’s parties. I might be able to ask about some behind the scenes tours, if you’d like.”

“My kids will love you forever,” Brick announced, “but don’t, like, go out of your way or anything, yeah? No worries. Hey, hand me the pineapple slices? Over there, on your right.” Colby instantly did. Brick, Jason noticed, made sure no accidental touching happened. No physical contact. No sudden movements, either, from that big bulky corner.

He loved his friends even more, not that he’d say so. He drank more beer instead. And ate the other cookie. Like everything Colby made, it was a small miracle.

“I don’t think we’ve officially met.” Evan saluted Colby with his lemonade, which Jason had been told had been made by Christa and the swamp monsters, and contained enough sugar to be a threat to dentists across the globe. “I’m Evan. Jason once tried to run me over with a car.”

“I didn’t do that either,” Jason sighed. “And anyway it was one of Dad’s cars. I knew that car. And exactly where it would stop. And your brother was in the car too. And he told me to. Because he wanted to see if you’d react. _And_ you jumped onto the car and tried to punch it.”

“This,” Evan said, “this is what I grew up with,” and gestured with the cup at the backyard and by extension Jason and the other stunt guys. “Good luck.”

“And now I’m learning even more about you,” Colby said to Jason. “Evan, it’s lovely to finally meet you. I did want to thank you for all the help when I was in hospital and recovering. Checking in on Jason’s family, being willing to arrange travel if they’d ended up coming over, talking to Jason…thank you.” In that plush many-layered voice, sincerity floated like petals: roses from a storybook, somehow not at all out of place in a casual backyard gathering, only pleased to get to say the words.

“Hey, I’m happy to help.” Their gazes met, equally honest; Evan’s grin showed off every dimple. “And you _are_ the nicest person ever. What’re you doing with _this_ guy?”

“Jason’s marvelous!”

“See,” Jason said. “I’m marvelous.”

“By association,” Evan said. “With him. No, I’m kidding, Jason’s a good guy. And I’ve never seen him look happier. Like, ever. And that’s something that—it’s important. When you find that. Being happy.”

“It is,” Colby said, quiet and with conviction. “So very much. Thank you again.”

Jason wondered some more about Prague and filming and what Evan hadn’t quite said, earlier. Loving getting to work with someone more. The way they fit. The tiny smile when Jason and Colby had openly freely kissed.

He never had, he realized with some guilt about friendship, known exactly what direction Evan’s interests lay, if they even did. He was pretty sure there’d been a casual girlfriend or two, and the dimples and friendliness and impressive body charmed a whole lot of people, but—flipping through memories—he couldn’t come up with anything serious.

This’d been Evan’s fourth film in that superhero franchise. Doubling for James Parr, the young and attractive square-jawed wholesome lead actor, who hadn’t been anyone Jason’d known at the time of casting but who played a team leader and weary-but-optimistic supersoldier to perfection. They would’ve been working _closely_ together.

Interesting, he thought.

Colby asked a question about the previous film and the big fight sequence on the superhero jet, in close quarters. Evan grabbed another chair, plus one for Jason, and settled in.

The afternoon settled in along with them, in burgers and chicken and grilled pineapple and the splash of water. Jason draped an arm over Colby’s shoulders, being a good shield-wall just in case but mostly because he liked holding Colby, and he _could_ hold Colby, and that was good too.

A while later, he’d gotten up to get a new drink—iced tea, since he’d switched to that after the first couple beers—and left Colby contemplating carrot cake; he was enjoying himself, and he thought Colby was too, though he wanted to stay relatively nearby. More margaritas and beer had happened overall, and the noise level had gone up, and over on the grass Patricia Chen had just finished demonstrating exactly how to take down someone twice her size in five seconds flat; Eddie, now prone on his back, applauded his own defeat enthusiastically, and several onlookers cheered and asked whether Pat could show them some more variations. There was a definite tendency toward loosening up and friendly rivalry happening.

Nobody in this group would get too out of hand. Jason knew them all, and knew Brick had thought about who to invite into a party with Colby Kent, under the vaguely understood circumstances in question. He knew they’d behave, more or less.

He also wanted to be close to Colby. Not in case of anything in particular. Just…in case. Lots of large guys. Lots of inadvertently looming presences. Lots of motion. Colby might want some closeness.

He found the margarita pitcher and acquired one more for Colby. He turned around.

Colby was still over by the desserts, and talking to Evan, which was promising. They’d been getting along, and Evan one-on-one was generally unthreatening in the way of someone who did not need to broadcast the fact that he could disable any attacker with the aid of maybe a paper-clip and a neat exercise of well-honed skills. Evan was also good at practicing that unthreatening presence with a wide variety of people; he taught Krav Maga and self-defense classes for multiple ages and skill levels at his local gym when not out working on a production. They always filled up fast.

Evan would be acceptable company as a temporary bodyguard, Jason decided. He found more tea for himself, and looked back over.

They’d moved. Standing close together.

Too close? Too intense?

He set down both drinks, not thinking about it. Colby put a hand up—was that trying to push Evan away? Or something else? Colby didn’t look distressed otherwise, more curious; Evan was talking.

Colby said something else, something short. And all at once Evan had a hand on Colby’s wrist, a visibly tight grip—

Jason lunged a step that way across the patio. Static in his head.

But Colby was nodding, turning his arm, saying something. Asking a question.

Evan let go, took Colby’s hand, put it on his own arm, clearly told Colby to hold on. Said something, explaining. Moved, twisted, pushed against the weak spot in Colby’s hold, forced Colby to let go or break a finger or two.

Jason froze mid-heroic dash.

Evan waved his own hand, held it up, waited for Colby to offer a wrist again for mock threatening. Patiently used the other hand to indicate motion, where and how and how much pressure.

Colby watched with the expression of someone taking detailed mental notes, then copied Evan’s movement almost exactly, not quite as practiced but ending up free.

Evan grinned, gave him a thumbs-up, held up both hands in what Jason recognized as a fairly basic but effective guard stance. Got Colby to copy that too, and then—while talking, very carefully, and given Colby’s nod doing so with permission—reached over and adjusted Colby’s left shoulder. Then did an extreme slow-motion version of a punch at Colby’s face.

Colby deflected the punch, looked surprised at himself, and then laughed. Evan said something else, and Colby nodded again, hair bouncing with the motion.

Jason exhaled, breathed in, did it again, picked both drinks back up, and walked over. Slowly.

“Jason!” Colby tucked himself back against Jason’s side promptly, a long-legged kitten settling back into comfort. “Evan’s been showing me some things! And perhaps some more things this upcoming week? If that works with his schedule.”

“He’s already in pretty good shape, starting out,” Evan said to Jason, and then, to Colby, “No, you seriously are. You’re a swimmer, so you’ve got that lean muscle. You already know how to fall, how to land right, how to think about your body and stunt work. And you’ve done some fight training, choreography, I know it’s been mostly historical stuff, but it’ll help. Plus you can dance, which is gonna be good for footwork, rhythm, using your hips, all that. This’ll be fun.”

“I’m interested.” Colby’s eyes shone, blue as newfound horizons. “And Evan’s very sweet.”

Jason, who had once seen Evan plow through a film-set skyscraper’s worth of fellow stunt guys and then do a flying leap onto a helicopter, said, “Totally sweet.” Evan narrowed eyes at him. Jason asked, “How’d you know Colby can dance?”

“Mysterious insider knowledge,” Evan said. “Friends of friends. Might’ve been at a certain club a few years ago. Also I saw some footage of you two on a movie set.”

Colby beamed up at Jason as if this were the best proclamation ever. “I like dancing with Jason. Thursday morning, you said? Before your eight am class?”

“Seven work for you?”

“Perfect. I’m looking forward to it.”

“ _I_ could teach you,” Jason grumbled. He wasn’t really annoyed. He liked the idea of Colby wanting to learn; he trusted Evan. He also suspected that Evan would be a better instructor than he himself would; he’d be too conscious of his weight and bulk and the possibility of hurting Colby, or pushing too hard or not hard enough. He could admit that to himself, if not aloud. “But this’ll work too. Colby, did you want cake?”

“Always.” Colby leaned into him. Three of Chris’s margaritas meant an impressive amount of alcohol; Colby had a pretty decent tolerance, given years of practice at parties and events, and mostly tended to get either extra-talkative and cuddly or, less often, in the sort of mood that borrowed electric-pink high heels and got up on stage to dazzle everyone at a karaoke bar. Jason enjoyed both versions immensely; at the moment Colby wasn’t much more than a little more demonstrative, though. The cuddling was more about wanting to feel secure than anything else, as far as he could tell.

He kissed the side of Colby’s head; Colby put an arm around his waist. “I think…not immediately, but perhaps after the cake…I’m not certain this shirt is warm enough for the, er, changing weather. At least as it gets colder.” The wind had picked up; so had some sort of competition involving the kids’ discarded water pistols and stuntperson agility, over on the grass.

“That’s why you’ve got me. For _all_ the weather.” He tightened the arm around Colby some more. Being a devoted champion. A big stone wall. A portcullis for the castle.

Not immediately, then, as far as leaving. But soon. Before conditions got less favorable. They could go home while feeling triumphant.

Colby would probably approve of an absurd line about assistance with feeling warmer, as soon as they walked in the door. Warming up _naked_. Body heat. Being taken care of.

He made himself stop thinking about that, in case certain reactions became visible.

They had cake. It was fantastic. Colby was happy.

They did a round of chatting, saying goodbyes, getting distracted by discussions of carrot-and-ginger recipes, the challenges of old black-and-white movie stunts, questions and hints about the musical that’d end up being their next film project, some fist-bumps and quick rough hugs. No one tried to hug Colby, but the grins and nods and hand-clasps were genuine. Colby liked that, from the shy but very real smile in return.

Jason found himself surprised by this, and then was surprised he’d been surprised. Colby had once upon a time been more comfortable touching people and being touched, according to Andy; Colby _liked_ people, underneath rambling talkative tendencies that served as shields for desperate anxiety about doing or saying the wrong thing, being inadequate, ending up either overly enthusiastic or too hesitant. Colby liked simply watching other people being happy.

Jason found himself reminded of that, looking down at Colby’s expression as Christa offered to trade recipes. Colby Kent might be the sort of person who’d leave a Hollywood party after a couple hours and go home and curl up with a book, but being an introvert didn’t mean not enjoying company ever. And those wide blue eyes might hide some invisible scars, but that hadn’t taken away the sheer delight in them when finding someone who’d be just as excited about bookbinding or pumpkin scones or martial arts lessons.

Colby liked being here. With Jason’s friends.

Jason wanted to cheer. Or to scoop everyone up into his arms and hug them all. He stood up a tiny bit straighter: he’d maybe had a small role in giving Colby this, or finding it again, or at least being part of that pleasure. Him, and his friends.

He also juggled some leftovers, having been handed several containers. At least they’d have room in the bike’s top case; every last one of Colby’s cookie offerings’d been devoured.

Colby went off to find a restroom, directed by Christa. Jason balanced Tupperware and went out to solve the puzzle of fitting everything in, on the bike. Evan followed noiselessly, and caught the chicken container when it slid off the stack.

“Thanks.”

“What’d I say about being here to help? That one won’t fit there.”

It didn’t. Jason sighed. Moved potato salad around.

“Want me to do it? I’m good at blocking and set-up.”

Jason opened the potato salad, picked out an appropriate piece, and flicked it at Evan’s face. Felt like a natural response, especially when Evan managed to catch and eat the potato chunk. Around it, he said, “So, Colby’s great.”

“He is,” Jason agreed. Wholeheartedly. “He’s amazing.”

“So…look, it was his idea. He wants to learn. He knows he’s not gonna be, like, turning into me or you or anything, but he wants to know at least some basics.”

“I get it.” He stopped rearranging carrot cake. Everything fit. “It’s a good idea.” It was. For lots of reasons.

“I wanted to say, I’ll be careful with him.” Evan was serious; Jason could tell. In eyes, in posture, in tone. “I know there’s some…shit that happened, with him, before you. And you guys don’t have to tell me anything else, it’s up to you and him. But I want you to hear it from me, so you know I mean it. I swear I’ll be careful. Asking first, hands-on versus hands-off, whatever we work out that works best. We’ll come up with a code word, y’know, whatever he picks, if he needs to stop everything on the spot, if he’s not okay.”

All those aforementioned reasons lined up behind this speech. Colby wanted to know this, was actively interested, could be part of Jason’s life in a whole new way. Colby could learn something new, and would as usual enjoy doing that. And, if they ended up at more parties or premieres or Leo’s karaoke nights, if Jason ever wasn’t at his side—

Colby possessing some of those skills would help. Physically, if he ever had to defend himself. But also the simple fact of knowing that he _could_.

Jason’s brain chose that second to gift him with an image of Colby mid-workout, long legs and elegant muscle, a sheen of sweat, the power in a certain stance. His whole body got hotter, under his jacket and jeans.

Evan was watching him, open and sincere and earnest. Jason said, just as earnest, “Thanks.”

“And he said you could come and watch if you wanted. Maybe even step in for some practice. Which I’m fine with, especially if you stick around and help me with some demonstrations for an advanced class or two.”

“So I’m allowed to come watch if I’m working.”

“You know how much I enjoy knocking you on your ass.”

“Try it again and we’ll see how fun it is. Hey, um. Not really a question, but. Um. Maybe it’s none of my business.”

Evan gave him a half-shrug, hands in pockets. “Not like I’ve got secrets.”

Jason couldn’t not raise eyebrows at that. “Don’t you? Who was it you said you loved being with, in Prague?”

Evan was not, in fact, an actor. His entire face gave emotions away.

Jason held up a hand. “I’m not even asking. If you don’t want to tell me. That’s, y’know, up to you. And the other person involved. Or people, I guess, if that’s what you’re into.”

Evan, a little weakly, flipped him off, but then said, “Honestly I never thought it’d be even one, I don’t really, um, y’know? The whole sex thing? Kinda? Isn’t a thing? I don’t fucking know, okay,” which made Jason stop and do another round of rethinking.

He said, “Oh. Huh.”

“You’re my best friend, not my big brother,” Evan said. “Stop giving me the _I want to give you advice_ face.”

“I’m not sure I even _could_. Kinda…outside my experience with that one. No, hang on, though. You did say there was someone. It’s…the person I’d be guessing, if I was guessing, right?”

Evan squeezed both eyes shut, muttered, “Yeah,” and opened them. Normal equilibrium transformed into light dismay. “He’s…it’s…yeah. Exactly who you think. Of course I fucking fall for someone, and he’s the fucking hero. But it’s not like…I mean, I think he…we’re…the problem isn’t, like, that I think he doesn’t like me back, or what the fuck ever. I think maybe he does. But I’m me and he’s him and I’m not even really into sex that much and he’s a fucking _movie star_.”

Jason kind of wished Colby would appear. Blue-eyed empathy would be damn useful right this second. But Evan was his friend, so: “I mean, _I’m_ marrying a fucking movie star. If I can, so can you.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to marry him!”

“No, you said you think he likes you back.” Words. Advice. Okay. He could handle that. “Why do you think so?”

“He bought me ice cream,” Evan said. “From this tiny local place he fell in love with. He wanted me to try it. He—he always wants to hang out with me, on set. He learned massage techniques just so he could do that for me, he said. He called me last night just to talk, because he said he missed me. I want—but if I can’t be enough, I mean, for someone like—you know what, never mind.”

Jason reached over to punch him in the arm, but kindly. “He learned massage techniques for you, y’know. Sounds like he’s interested to me.”

“You think I should try.”

“I think if he’s put up with you for four movies’ worth of fight training, with you giving everyone orders about stunts and choreography and getting everything right, he probably knows you pretty well. And he still wants to talk to you, which, hey, voluntary torture right there.”

“I _will_ kick you in the face and call it an accident. With your other half watching.”

“You’re too good. Nobody’d believe it.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I think.”

“Look, I won’t say anything,” Jason said. His bike leaned in to listen, amused, sharing the confidence. It knew about love; it’d had Colby on the back, pressed up against Jason, and was about to again. “Not to anyone. And…all right, I’m not gonna say I’m an expert here, but…I am, somehow, fucking engaged to Colby Kent. I mean, I don’t think I’m _good_ at it. But I’m kinda figuring out the dating a mega-star thing too, and I did the whole coming-out circus already, and it’s worked out for us. So it _can_ work. Talking helps. Being there for someone, letting them be there for you, that helps. Start with that part. I’m here if you need anything, okay?”

“…you’re maybe not terrible at advice,” Evan said.

“Thanks?” And, in the realm of not at all the same but kind of the same in a sideways version if he squinted, he and Colby might both be able to offer some thoughts about the sex, or not-sex, or at least not being all _that_ much into sex, part. Sort of. At least sometimes, if not often.

There were some days, some moments, that weren’t good for that, even now. Colby obviously wasn’t Evan, and _definitely_ had discovered an impressive desire for sex with Jason. But there remained times when the impressive sex flat-out wasn’t an option, and they’d talked about that too. Might be useful, hearing both Colby’s side and his own, about negotiating those times. Or not. Maybe.

He’d have to think about that one some more. Sort out how to say better words. And ask Evan if sharing all this with Colby was okay, first. He figured that’d be a yes, since his fiancé and his best friend had apparently bonded over martial arts instruction and mutual trust, but he wouldn’t say anything without making sure.

He did want to help. He wanted to listen. To be there, for his friend.

He also kind of liked the idea of some practice bouts with Evan. A chance to show off. To win, naturally. With Colby watching. Because Colby always appreciated his muscles, and hadn’t seen everything he could do.

“And, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty good at the being engaged to Colby thing. The way you two look at each other. Someone’s fairytale happy-ending rom-com come to life.” Evan did the small shrug at him again, but was starting to smile. Back to usual steadiness. Having worked out some emotions. Having honored Jason with them. “Maybe, okay? Maybe I’ll try. Talking. Worked for you. Speaking of, am I still coming over to help you surprise him with new bookshelves on Tuesday?”

“It did,” Jason said. “Talking, and listening. That part matters too. And yeah. I’ll text you. We can talk more then.” Behind Evan’s shoulder, the other half of his soul stepped out of the gate, glanced around, and came over into the driveway, dark fluffy hair tugged by sunset breeze. The house, the home of a friend, framed him with camaraderie, inviting a return any time. A couple of palm trees waved to underscore the welcome.

“Hey,” Evan said to Colby. “So, I’ll see you Thursday morning. You and Jason, at least for your first session, but we can kick him out if he’s in the way. Sound good?”

“Entirely. And thank you again for doing this with me.” Colby smiled at him, and came back to Jason’s side: anchored and protected there. “Are we all set?”

“Yeah.” Jason picked up helmets, handed him his, grinned at Evan. “Yeah, I think we’re all good here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evan's still figuring out terminology, but he lands somewhere on the asexual spectrum, in the realm of "I mean yeah sex can feel really nice and I'll totally do that if James wants to, it's just not really a big thing for me," and also probably pan, in terms of the people he's had romantic feelings about. Also James has been in love with him for like six years, at this point: ever since first setting eyes on the absolutely stunning guy who'd be his stunt double, and basically going, _holy shit he's gorgeous and he can do backflips off a car and also he's super-patient with everyone and so good at teaching us stuff and now he's wearing a superhero suit and he's way out of my league, what am I, I'm just an actor, and now he's grinning at me and telling me we've got this and I am so fucked_.
> 
> Also, Jason very much appreciates Colby learning some things. He had not expected that to be _that_ much of a turn-on - maybe a little, because Colby = sexy - but Colby getting good at some of those moves, Colby all happy and proud of himself and confident in his newfound skills...Jason would happily get down on both knees or even just fall down on those mats over there and beg Colby to fuck him, right now, please.


	13. hurt, comfort, cinnamon pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scent drifted. A cologne, a certain spice: too heavy, too much, too familiar. Getting closer. And closer.
> 
> That wasn’t Liam. Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be: Liam’s career had careened into nothingness, after a few drunken rants and also some sneaky vengeance enacted by Colby’s friends, because he did have friends, now—
> 
> Liam couldn’t be here. But might be: if he’d known someone, been owed a favor, managed to get himself into this party—if those were his shoulders, if—
> 
> Colby tripped over nothing on the floor. Nearly fell. Some well-meaning hands reached to help. He flinched, collided with Jason, realized he was trembling.
> 
> No. No, he was better than that. He had to be. He couldn’t fall apart. Movie-star idol Colby Kent did not collapse into a ball of petrified fear and let everyone down. 
> 
> He could play a role. He knew how to do that. 
> 
> But he tasted dark thick spice when he tried for a next breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I asked whether I was being too mean, and people said no, give us the hurt/comfort, so...you all asked for this! <3
> 
> **Feel free to skip this one! It's going to get awfully...well, hurt-y. And then comfort-y! There's cuddling and breakfast in bed! With cinnamon pancakes! I promise! But still. Warnings listed right below.**
> 
> Warnings for:   
> -Colby having flashbacks (not explicit exactly, as far as descriptions of acts, but obvious about what's happening) that include emotional and physical abuse, especially what Colby would probably say was dubcon (he did consciously say yes) but Jason (and most people probably) would argue was actually noncon, or at least it turned into that  
> -a dissociative episode  
> -Jason's anxiety (also kind of trauma-related, given his loss of a friend) about not being able to save people
> 
> This one started as a small piece of what's going to be the next chapter, which is another lots-of-small-scenes chapter, but then I thought...because of all the warnings etc, it'd be best to make it its own chapter, if anyone wants to skip it. And then it grew longer. As chapters do. If you're me. *sigh*
> 
> Also, that says 15 chapters now because we'll get to Evan and James soon, because that's definitely happening!

Colby couldn’t breathe. Too many bodies—too many people here at this London glitz-and-glamour awards-event afterparty, but that wasn’t the main problem—

Jason had an arm around him and was steering them toward an exit. He appreciated that: Jason defending him.

Jason thought it was simply about the crowds, the pressing-close in a too-small room, everybody coming up to offer handshakes and hugs and congratulations. That was part of it, but not all. Colby couldn’t make himself recall how to talk, much less how to talk over the din. Couldn’t explain.

Blond hair, and height, and broad shoulders—not quite Jason-sized, but powerful enough to pin someone down—moved, and kept moving, his way. They sliced like a shark’s fin through the ocean of dresses and suits.

A scent drifted. A cologne, a certain spice: too heavy, too much, too familiar. Getting closer. And closer.

That wasn’t Liam. Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be: Liam’s career had careened into nothingness, after a few drunken rants and also some sneaky vengeance enacted by Colby’s friends, because he did have friends, now—

Liam couldn’t be here. But might be: if he’d known someone, been owed a favor, managed to get himself into this party—if those were his shoulders, if—

Colby tripped over nothing on the floor. Nearly fell. Some well-meaning hands reached to help. He flinched, collided with Jason, realized he was trembling.

No. No, he was better than that. He had to be. He couldn’t fall apart. Movie-star idol Colby Kent did _not_ collapse into a ball of petrified fear and let everyone down.

He could play a role. He knew how to do that. 

But he tasted dark thick spice when he tried for a next breath.

It got into his nose and his mouth and his chest—god, his chest, his whole body, the way he’d once lain trapped under smothering weight while Liam’s hand shoved his face into the mattress and Liam’s massive cock split him open, and he’d just resigned himself to waiting for it all to be over—

The sheets had smelled of that cologne too.

He tripped over his feet again. They didn’t feel like his.

He clung to Jason. Who stopped walking, eyes dark with concern. “Colby?”

Colby opened his mouth. No noise emerged.

He’d given up on making sounds, then. Anything he’d said had never made a difference. Not after the first time Liam had put him in handcuffs and pushed him to his knees, looked at him thoughtfully, and then hit him.

He’d said yes to the handcuffs. He’d said yes to perhaps trying a bit more roughness in bed. He’d always liked more dominant men, more forceful men, charismatic confident presences; he’d wanted to make Liam happy, the way he’d tried to make Tony happy before that.

He _had_ said yes. Aloud. A choice. More than once. He’d kept trying to say yes. He hadn’t known what that would mean.

Jason said that that wasn’t consent, and _definitely_ not once it’d escalated past what Colby’d thought he’d been agreeing to. Their therapist said so as well. Colby thought they were probably right. After all, he _had_ known it wasn’t right, even at the time; he’d just thought that perhaps he could fix things, could do better, if he tried harder to please. He’d known then, and he thought he knew now, that he might not be perfect, might not be the best at sex or relationships, but he _didn’t_ deserve to be hurt. And he had done the leaving—or more accurately the final throwing-out of Liam from his flat, along with the movie producer who’d been having such a splendid time with Colby’s supposed boyfriend—in the end.

Jason said that was a good thing, Colby having done that. So did Jill and Andy. Jason had in fact said a lot of words on that subject on more than one occasion, many of them profane, all of them cheering him on with protective fury. Jason said—

But if Liam was _here_ , then that hadn’t worked, and nothing’d changed after all—

He _hadn’t_ wanted this, with Liam. No—not present tense, not _this_. Right now wasn’t the past. None of that was happening now.

No hands leaving bruises, no voice telling him to stop talking but keep that pretty mouth open, to try to be at least useful in bed, to take whatever he was being given because that was all he was good for, and if it hurt it was his own fault, not being good enough—

The weight pushed against his chest more sharply. He couldn’t see well. Sparkles. Glittering and deadly. The shine of cocktail glasses, shimmery dresses, jewelry, chandeliers. The light swung tipsily, crazily, shedding drunken halos.

He didn’t know where the blond hair and the shoulders had gone. He couldn’t find them.

Jason was saying his name. Shaking him a little. Colby couldn’t feel anything except the memories. They stampeded over him. All the air went away.

If he couldn’t see, he couldn’t know where Liam’s hands might be, or where they’d land next. He couldn’t know whether Liam would pull someone else over at a party, both of them high or drunk and laughing, and invite the new man to fondle Colby’s arse or cock: showing off all the ways world-famous actor Colby Kent was his property, to be grabbed or shared or played with. Colby had tried to laugh, the first time; had tried to protest, the second time. Liam’s eyes had gone stormy, and one hand had closed around Colby’s wrist.

They’d ended up in the bedroom, for a reminder of who was in charge. You’re embarrassing me, Liam had hissed into his ear while bending him over. Not doing what I want. Not even up for a little fun with my friends. You’d rather hide in here with your books, being fucking _boring_ , the way you always are. You’re lucky I put up with you at all.

Colby, hurting and confused, had thought that maybe that was true. He _was_ boring, and he did like books, and he didn’t know how to do parties. He’d liked being wanted, the first time Liam had ever come over and looked him up and down and put a hand on his arm; that must have meant something, if Liam had wanted him enough for that once upon a time, so obviously something had changed, Colby himself must’ve done something wrong, not got something right, not done enough to keep Liam happy…

He blinked and saw blond hair and icy eyes instead of Jason’s generous deep brown. He blinked again and couldn’t see anything. Swirls of color. Indistinct.

That was Jason touching him, he knew it was—or was it? Hands on his arm, both arms…

The world went away for a bit, inside his head.

He came back when he realized he could breathe. The inhale tasted ragged but cool and clean. Jason was saying something he couldn’t quite make out. The noise had gone, otherwise. So had the people.

A different space tiptoed into perception. Not the afterparty. A hallway. Where they were standing. Featureless and ordinary. Pale gold walls. Dry unremarkable air. Maroon and cream carpet with a sort of art-deco pattern, very retro. He stared at it for a second, following lines. Their shapes felt comforting. Simple. Recognizable. Straightforward.

Jason had a hand resting on his shoulder. He could feel that: just the one hand. Not hard. Not clamping down.

But Jason’s voice cracked, and Jason’s eyes were wide and frantic, trying to project calm but utterly failing. “Colby? Colby, baby, you gotta wake up, come on, please. Please wake up for me. You’re safe, you’re here, I’m here, there’s nobody else, I won’t let anyone near you, I swear. But please—please look at me. Please try. You can see me, can’t you? It’s just me. Try to wake up for me.”

I can, Colby wanted to say. I’m awake. Please don’t cry. I’m here.

He couldn’t make even a syllable happen. How bizarre.

“Oh god. Oh god, okay, just—just stay with me, okay? Stay with me. Can you hear me? I love you.” Jason was pulling out his phone, nearly dropping it, fumbling. “Please just—oh fuck, Colby, I don’t know what to do. I don’t—please come back, please come back to me, please wake up, I can’t—” Tears spilled over. One big shaky hand lifted from Colby’s shoulder, moved to touch Colby’s cheek, then skidded to a halt before landing. “I don’t know how to help, baby, I’m sorry—I don’t know if you want to be touched, or if—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I think I gotta call someone, I don’t know if you want me to, if you want that, but this—this is worse than—I love you and I’m really fucking scared, baby.”

Colby tried to breathe some more. Air filled his lungs, and he felt that. Jason’s presence was large and frightened next to him, wrapped up in a familiar navy-blue suit; Jason smelled of woods and freshness and soap and the outdoors, not drenched in spice or smoke.

He watched the carpet-lines, his new friends, for another second or two, borrowing their undeniable reality; he thanked them silently, and looked up.

Jason had the phone poised to make a call. Doctor Priya. His therapist. Theirs, more accurately; they went in together, because Colby felt better that way, because he had no secrets from Jason, and because Jason wanted to know how to be a good partner, how to best support him, how and when to deploy protective care.

One corner of his mouth wanted to lift. A smile. His Jason. Loving him.

He became all at once aware that he was exhausted, hairline prickling a bit from sweat, legs uncertain about being upright much longer.

But that was his body, in the present. Feeling those things. Being here and now. In a deserted hotel hallway. With Jason. And a compassionate carpet.

He focused on Jason’s eyes. He watched as Jason registered that, as hope snuck into frightened forest groves.

He said, tasting the shape of each word across his tongue, “I’m here.”

“Colby,” Jason breathed, “oh thank god, oh god, fuck, you’re _here_ —” and started to throw arms around him. Froze, muscles arrested mid-action. “I shouldn’t—should I—can I—”

“Please. Please hold me.”

Jason gathered him close, held on tightly enough that Colby’s feet nearly left the ground, and buried his face in Colby’s neck. Dampness brushed Colby’s skin; Jason was crying.

“I’m here,” he tried again, and ventured an attempt at resting his own hands on his loyal champion’s back. Jason made a sound and kept on holding him.

“Er…Jason?”

“What do you need? What can I do?” Jason pulled back enough to search his face. “Anything.”

“I think I’d like to go home. But…how did we get here? In a…hallway?”

“You don’t remember—” Jason stopped. “No. You don’t. Christ. Um, okay. You, um. You went so fucking quiet—and just completely white, like you were seeing a ghost—but you were still on your feet, you walked out of there—with me—I didn’t realize how bad it was. I knew you weren’t okay, but then we got out here and I said your name and you just…you weren’t there.” He stumbled over the words. Anguish shredded the velvet of his gaze. “You weren’t seeing me or hearing me. Or anything, I think.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“No,” Jason said. “No. It’s not—it’s not your fucking fault, Colby. It’s not. Everything he did to you—that’s not your fault, and this isn’t either, you came back and woke up and looked at me and that was amazing, you’re amazing, every fucking day you wake up and let me kiss you is amazing. You’re not apologizing to me because _you don’t have to_. Not for still being here.”

“Oh,” Colby said, bewildered and wrung out and suddenly wanting very badly to sit down. Perhaps to lie down. To have Jason beside him, a shape and a tower he knew and loved. “I…I don’t know. I can’t think. Was I…was it very melodramatic? Me making a scene?”

“You didn’t.” Jason’s eyebrows drew together, darkly defensive of him. “Seriously, you basically just—I mean, you looked like you’d seen—something—and you stopped talking, but you kept everything together and we got out the closest door. People might’ve seen you were upset, wanting to leave, but I don’t think they knew you were—you weren’t…”

“They won’t’ve realized everything was essentially functioning on autopilot,” Colby filled in. “Any actual pilots had leapt out of the emergency exit, I’m afraid.”

Jason winced.

“If anyone’s allowed a dreadful extended metaphor at the moment, that person should be me. I’m awfully tired and I’d like to sit down, but I’d also very much like to go home, if we could?” His legs had transformed themselves into pudding. The wobbly kind.

“I’ll get us out of here right now. And…I love you.” Jason sounded wobbly as well. Colby wondered whether Jason also felt like pudding, got an exceedingly strange mental picture for a moment, and discovered that he knew how to smile.

“Colby?” So tentative. So afraid. It must’ve been bad, for Jason to look this way.

“I was picturing you covered in custard and jam,” Colby attempted to explain, which only prompted more worried wrinkles on Jason’s forehead. “Oh…no, I’m all right, I’m not handing the controls back to a delirious autopilot, I promise. I thought about my legs and being wobbly, and then I thought you must be feeling that too, and I thought about jelly…it made sense in my head. I love you, of course.”

“That…actually, you do sound normal,” Jason said, rallying. Knightly courage gathered up to lean on. “Like your normal, anyway. I can carry you if you’re feeling like, um, structurally unstable dessert food. I’ll call the car, but…home? Not…I don’t know. A hospital?”

Colby fought back a shiver. More people, more touching. “No. Please. I’m not hurt, I’m only…”

“Wobbly?”

“Yes. I need…” He wasn’t sure. He essayed a shrug, or half of one, or an approximation. “I’m not certain what else I might need, but I want to be home with you.” Too plaintive? But Jason didn’t appear to mind.

Jason, in fact, tucked him even more securely into a circle of muscles, and guided Colby’s head down to rest on his shoulder, and stroked Colby’s hair. “We can do that. I’ll get the car to pick us up right now, okay? You just rest. Don’t worry about anything, I got it.”

“I know you have,” Colby whispered back, and let his eyes close, face nestled into Jason’s strength and scent and love. He could stay right here, being held, and let Jason handle getting them home. He trusted Jason.

Jason, having gotten Colby very carefully home and up to the bedroom, having removed collective jackets and ties and shoes—keeping motions slow, measured, in plain sight—and having gingerly settled Colby into bed under blankets, finally managed to believe they might be okay.

He looked at Colby, who was pale and clearly exhausted but sitting up with the aid of pillows. Tumultuous hair lay flatter than usual, hit hard by memories. Colby’s eyes—

He felt the shiver bolt down his spine. Haunted. Blue like phantoms. Like deep water over old bones.

And even that was better than they’d looked earlier. When he’d been steering Colby out the nearest door, and turned to ask a question, and realized then that Colby hadn’t been hearing him or seeing him at all, gaze locked someplace else behind unbreakable glass—

He’d guessed why. The crowds, at first. The lack of breathing space. But he’d caught a glimpse of blond hair, a shape and a face that at a distance looked a lot like Colby’s ex. He hadn’t been sure.

He wanted to hit something. Liam, by preference. Hard, and repeatedly.

He wanted to fix everything. He couldn’t. What good were his hands, his muscles, his strength, if he couldn’t fight back the worst thing that’d ever happened to the man he loved?

Colby said, voice far too small but not too uneven, “Will you sit with me?”

“Of course.” Should he? Would he be too large, too imposing? But Colby wanted him.

He sat, tentatively. The bed felt like their bed, the one they’d bought here in London, in this flat that’d once been Colby’s and was now definitively theirs. Plush top over firmness. Graceful headboard. Dancing cupcake sheets. He’d bought them to make Colby laugh. They had. They tried hard now.

They were both still dressed, or mostly. Suit-pieces. Shirts and pants. He swallowed. Inched a hand over. “Are you…how’re you feeling?”

If he closed his own eyes he saw it all again. Colby completely not present, there but empty, dragged back into a past where Jason couldn’t follow…

Colby took his hand, lacing their fingers together. All the bedroom lights were on; Jason had done that, first thing. No shadows in sight. “Better, I think. Mostly terribly tired. Somewhat…fractured. As if I’d been doing a fairly good job of putting puzzle pieces together, and then someone bumped the table, and quite a few of them ended up scattered. I can find them again, though. With your help.”

“I never knew you felt like that.”

“I don’t, generally. Day to day. I hadn’t thought…I didn’t expect this. You know why…that is, you know who I thought I…”

“Yeah.” He reached over with his other hand too. Cradled Colby’s fingers. Long and graceful, they were cold at first, but warmed under his touch. “I saw him. Or someone who looked like him.”

“It was even the same overpowering cologne he used to wear.” Colby found a glint of humor, hauled up from depths and hard-won. “I never liked it, though perhaps that was because he practically bathed in it. I suppose it’s not a bad olfactory warning system. Horribleness approaching.”

“I could find out,” Jason suggested tentatively, “if it was him. And who let him in.” And _then_ he could hit things.

“Oh…no, I think not. If it was or it wasn’t, this time…it doesn’t matter.” Colby sighed, looked down at their hands, looked back up. “It seems we know what my reaction is, either way.”

“Yeah. Self-defense mechanisms.” He leaned over, caught a stray clinging strand of brown silk, brushed it away from Colby’s right eye. “Makes sense. And don’t say you’re sorry.”

“No. But…I wish…”

“Yeah. Me too. I wish I could…” He didn’t have the words. Inarticulate. Too immense. “I just wish I could make it easier. Take some of it for you.”

“You do,” Colby said. “You do. Every day. I…you know, I think I might need to cry a little. I feel…”

“Go on.” Jason scooted closer. Offered himself. Everything he was. “All over me. I’m a good box of tissues.”

“Now I’m attempting to picture _that_ ,” Colby told him, and then did something between a collapse and a dive into Jason’s arms, and did start to cry, abrupt as the breaking-open of a small scared raincloud.

He hid his face in Jason’s chest, muffling sound, though he wasn’t loud; some sort of internalized need to not disturb anyone, Jason thought, and rubbed Colby’s back with ferocious reaffirmation. Colby’s shoulders shook; Jason held him, murmured whatever words came to mind, everything he could think of involving reassurance and love and praise, how incredible Colby was, how strong, how loved. How honored he, Jason, felt, getting to be here when Colby needed to fall apart for a minute, which was absolutely fine because they were both here and safe and Jason wasn’t going anywhere.

Colby, unlike Jason himself, was even gorgeous when sobbing, tear-tracks and sniffles and all. Always, Jason thought, always; and kissed the top of his head, lightly, and promised to make breakfast in the morning, cinnamon pancakes exactly how Colby liked them, nice and fluffy, and macadamia nut coffee, and anything else that might be wanted.

Colby just kept crying, not hard but not stopping, a release that overflowed and left him clinging to Jason, while Jason’s shirt took in tears with quiet understanding. After a while the sobs trailed off, and his head rested against Jason’s chest, not moving. Jason peeked down, realized that Colby had fallen asleep, and felt the sight slice open a crack in his chest.

Oh, Colby, he thought. My Colby. I love you. So damn much.

Colby, utterly worn out, did not wake. Jason shifted position slightly—his left knee was grateful for the adjustment—and settled in. He could sit with his heart right here all night. All morning. As long as necessary.

Colby awakened with a mild crick in his neck, a nice heated firm pillow, the sound of purring—no, very light snoring—and the prickly sensation behind his eyes that suggested he’d been crying before falling asleep. He was warm, perhaps too warm: mostly dressed and tucked into multiple blankets. He lay unmoving for a second or two and tried to sort all this out.

He _had_ been crying. He recalled that. He’d been scared, and broken, in the way of once-mended glass knocked off a shelf a second time. He’d needed to let go, to let it fall.

He felt pieces slide and shift and catch on each other, deep inside; but a few of them had done some self-repair as well, laced back together with gold.

He was home and safe. He could _be_ home and safe. If he’d fallen apart, he’d been able to gather the shards again, with Jason’s hands there to catch some bits and cradle them until he could fit them in again.

His pillow was of course Jason. Large and solid and also still dressed in most of a suit, propped up at what must be a terrifically uncomfortable angle, head drooping, plainly having drifted off while protecting him.

He loved Jason. He loved waking up with Jason. He wasn’t afraid, not here in those broad arms.

Jason would never hurt him. Jason would try to save him. Jason would stay up all night to protect him, and jump off a cliff to rescue him, and gently ask about consent and caresses, and listen to every yes and no without hesitation.

Jason couldn’t save him from everything.

He didn’t bother to move, feeling the motion as Jason breathed, a slow steady rise and fall like tides. He knew those earthwork eyes wanted to be his knight, his shield, his shining sword. I wish I could, Jason had said. I wish I could take some of it for you. Make it easier.

You do, Colby thought again, crystalline and clear enough that he hoped Jason heard it through dreams. Oh, you do. More than you know. More than I know how to tell you. I love you, Jason.

He opened his eyes in the wake of that thought, drinking in the room. Their bedroom. His flat, originally, but theirs now, remodeled and redecorated. The dresser with the fanciful knobs and handles, with Jason’s things joining his. The new enormous freestanding mirror. That one’d made him blush when Jason first kissed him as they stood naked in front of it, but in a way he’d liked: a sort of embarrassment that went all hot and shivery in his bones, something like the exhibitionist fantasies he’d never want in real life, all about him being publicly claimed and wanted and utterly completely taken hard, blatant willing submission to Jason’s dominance and Jason’s choosing of him. That was here on display but in private, reflected just for them.

Jason knew that, about his fantasies. Jason knew him. Better than anyone.

Colby thought, for a moment, about dominance and being taken; the echo pressed up against new internal stitches and nudged but did not snap golden thread. Holding, for the moment; and it was only an echo, after all.

He took a deep breath, let it out. Let himself be real and present and alive in the moment.

Jason stirred. Shifted. Mountains moved. Colby hastily adjusted his own position and held on more tightly.

“Shit—Colby—” Jason jerked upright, or began to; he recognized Colby atop him and hauled continental drift to a halt. “I didn’t mean to—how’re you feeling, are you okay—never mind, _okay_ isn’t the right word, sorry, fuck—”

“Jason.” Colby patted his champion’s chest, and fought an inexplicable absurd urge to giggle. “I’m okay.”

“Um…”

“Or, well, I’m not, we both know that, but I am, right this instant, I think?”

“Are you?” Jason reached up gradually; when Colby didn’t flinch, one hand came to rest atop his head, playing with his hair. “You seem…I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.” He tucked his own hand under his chin, a cushion; he tilted his head into the petting. “I woke up…oh, sugar decorations on a cake, perhaps. Fragile, and I wouldn’t want to be dropped, but in one piece. And relatively secured in place. You’re my edible glue. Buttercream. Anchors.”

“I don’t mind being your buttercream. We already said I was your bread.” Jason touched a finger to the edge of Colby’s left eyebrow: beside his eye. “I can be whatever bakery staple you want. I’m happy you’re feeling secure, and don’t take this any way other than what I’m saying, ’cause that’s what I mean, but…are you sure? Last night…”

“Last night was…” Colby twitched a shoulder, not a full shrug. “What it was. But it was a specific moment, a specific cause…I know what happened and why. I know you’re you and not him. I _know_ that.” Saying so, he understood that it was true.

He might have a few scars that ran deeper than he’d known, and they’d have to learn how to live with that. But Jason wasn’t Liam. Not even Tony, or Mark, or anyone who’d hurt or hit or simply left him. And Colby himself wasn’t the same person he’d been.

He’d remembered, or rediscovered, how to choose. How to want, or not want, and how to be wanted. How to be proud of his words and his writing and his life and maybe himself, once in a while. He belonged with Jason—sometimes _to_ Jason, in wondrous radiant submission—because that felt right.

He wanted this.

Propped up on Jason’s chest, looking down into Jason’s eyes—such beautiful eyes, deep luscious brown with those long portrait-frame eyelashes—he said, “I’m all right. We should ring Doctor Priya, agreed—I do think we ought to talk about it with her—but not just yet. Thank you, also. I haven’t said that yet, and I should.”

“For what?” Jason remained immobile under him: marginally more relaxed but controlling every last muscle with a stunt-man’s self-awareness. The one hand stroking Colby’s hair did so weightlessly and deliberately. “Haven’t exactly done much.”

“Oh, no—you have!” He poked Jason’s chest, right over that large vulnerable heart. Making the point literal. “So much. I’m doing as well as I am _because_ I’ve got you to land on.”

Jason sighed, though a tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No shattered sugar decorations?”

“Not with you around.” He was feeling decidedly warm now, with sunshine brushing his back; he glanced at his arm, and a rolled-up lilac shirtsleeve, and remnants of the night before. “I think…I might want to change. Perhaps shower. Would you—”

“I’ll make breakfast.” Jason swallowed. His glance darted away, then back up. “Promised I would. And you…you sure you want to get up? You could stay here. In bed.”

Jason didn’t want to join him? Didn’t want to wash away sweat and fear and pain? Or didn’t want to see him naked, after that awful fragility? “I…I could, I suppose, but…I can get up.”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Jason’s eyes did something complicated, a wince and an apology. “I would. I love jumping in the shower with you. You know I do. I just…I don’t know. Right now. If the best thing for you is, um…me. Naked. Large. Muscles. Enclosed spaces. With you.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not because I don’t want you.”

“No…I…wasn’t…”

“Don’t say you weren’t thinking that.” Jason tapped his index finger against Colby’s lips; the expression on his face nearly broke Colby’s heart. “I knew how you’d hear it as soon as I said it. Fucking words. But that’s not it, okay? I love you, Colby Algernon Emerson Kent. That’s not gonna change.”

Colby nodded, behind the fingertip. Then kissed it, shy but certain he wanted to.

“Okay.” Jason lifted the finger. “Okay, how’s this. I’ll sit right here and make sure you can stand up—”

“I can!”

“—and _if_ you can, you should go shower. Get cleaned up.” Jason traced the line of Colby’s jaw. Colby’s entire body tingled, in a weary but not uninterested way. He hadn’t known his jawline liked that, until now. “Feel better. And then put on something soft and maybe get back in bed? I’ll make pancakes for us, and you don’t have to do anything, got it? You just stay here, stay warm—” Stay safe, said his face. “—and let me take care of you today.”

Colby thought this over. “Is that an order, then?”

“Maybe. If you want that. Not, if you don’t.”

“I like it. Being yours…that’s good, right now, I think.”

“Okay, then.” Jason tipped his head up; Colby leaned down. Their lips met, quick and full of promise. “You like being good for me. And you are. Always. So yeah, it’s an order.”

“Yes, Jason.” And the thrill raced down his spine: more distant than usual, not leading anyplace, but undeniable. He was still Jason’s; he was still the person who could want this.

He could get up, and proved it: hand catching Jason’s for balance while he sorted out legs and the floor and equilibrium, but they all came to an agreement readily enough. He wiggled toes inside his socks, indigo against the creamy rug and topaz sun-stripe. His toes, his socks, their bedroom. Bathed in sun.

He took a breath and found a grin, as Jason sat up but stayed put on the bed, as promised.

He went off to the bathroom, paused, stuck his head back out. “You can come in and brush your teeth.”

Jason laughed, got up, and came to join him. “That bad, when I kissed you?”

“No, in fact. But you may as well, while I’m here.” He shifted weight, let a hip bump into Jason’s. Waved his own toothbrush in demonstration. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Jason agreed, and joined him.

After general morning ablutions, Jason ducked out into the bedroom and threw on sweatpants and a worn grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest and shoulders. Colby knew which shirt it was, faded from years of washing, friendly to the touch; he wasn’t really watching Jason change, but peeked around the bathroom door. Couldn’t resist. Wanted to see.

Jason blew him a kiss and commanded, “Shower, and stay warm,” and went out and down the short flight of stairs to the kitchen, where noises suggested the imminence of pancakes and the relief of a fortress given a task to complete. Colby glanced at himself in the mirror, shrugged a shoulder philosophically, and flipped on the shower.

He did hesitate for a moment while taking off his suit-trousers and underwear. He’d got the shirt off before his memories had quite caught up; he had his hands on his thighs, clothing sliding down, before he thought that perhaps he ought to’ve flinched.

He hadn’t, though. And he didn’t feel worse; he didn’t feel anything much about it. Getting naked; well, yes, he did that, often with Jason. And being naked here, in their bedroom, in this bathroom…

He did have some older uglier memories in that bathroom, but those were difficult to find these days. They’d had the entire room renovated; Jason had taken evident satisfaction in helping with demolition, and Colby had taken equal and utterly primal satisfaction in the sight of Jason all sweaty and dusty and rippling with muscle, shirt clinging to his back, whole powerful body intent on making this space something that’d be theirs.

They’d turned the room into a vaguely Atlantean underwater steampunk fantasy, shaped in blue and green and glass and bronze. The shower and tub were oversized enough for all sorts of inventive activities, and the tile in the shower resembled an ocean floor and was fairly comfortable if one ended up on one’s knees. Colby knew that for a fact. So, come to think of it, did Jason, who had at one point got down there and employed mouth and fingers to pull a third wrenching glorious climax out of Colby’s shuddering body.

His cock, which recalled that encounter extremely well, stirred. Not hard precisely, but filling and fattening up a bit. That reaction was clearly unimpeded, then; Colby laughed at himself, shook his head, and finished getting undressed. In the bathroom, steam trailed itself over his skin, beckoning; he’d made it hot.

He stepped in, shut both eyes, and tipped his face up under pelting drops, for a moment.

Water slipped through his hair. Heat sank all the way to his toes. The tile pebbled at his feet, oceanic comfort in place.

Shakiness and sweat and scars faded. Washed toward the drain. Left him breathless, suffused by warmth and steam, surrounded by a fantasy they’d made real.

He scooped up body wash, his own current honey-and-pear favorite, and breathed in the scent; he opened Jason’s just to stick his nose over that too, and laughed, and scrubbed at his skin until it tingled and grew pink. He watched his hands move over his own body: arms, legs, stomach. Thighs. Cock. All of himself. All belonging to this version of himself, the version who liked sleeping in Jason’s arms.

He made his hair stand up in fantastical tropical-scented shampoo-foam, and ran his fingers through it, luxuriating in sensation.

Jason had been right, to an extent: Colby wouldn’t’ve minded sharing this moment, but this felt right too. Himself, his body, stretching and loosening and getting a tendril of sneaky conditioner dangerously close to one eye.

He flicked it away. Caught himself humming. A song in his head.

He let himself sing a line or two, with an audience of cheering water and curious aquatic tile. About being in love. Friday. Never looking back. Not caring if Monday’s black, or Sunday always comes too late.

“It’s Friday,” he announced to leaping drops, “and I’m in love.” It wasn’t Friday, the drops pointed out—it _was_ a Monday, in fact, the day after that Sunday-night awards show—but yes, about being in love. They all agreed on that.

Colby smiled to himself, finished with all the hair—Jason did like it a bit long, nice for playing with; Colby had considered cutting it shorter after _Steadfast_ , and had in fact got Will’s wild Romantic-poet mop tamed down slightly, but he’d decided he also liked the way it looked, framing his face or curling up or tumbling down—and hopped out.

Clean. Naked. Himself. Whole, if a bit tender in spots. Stronger, perhaps, than he’d realized.

He wandered naked out to the bedroom, considered clothing, opted for pajama trousers and a very specific shirt, and then, barefoot, headed for the door.

Jason flipped a pancake. Stared at it. Breathed in cinnamon and heat. Colby’s stove—one of the few things they hadn’t replaced—was a chef’s stove in the same way the whole kitchen was a chef’s dream: belonging to someone who loved to cook and bake and experiment, and who had money to play with. Jason, memories of his Nonna’s meatballs and his mother’s cannoli resurfacing, had fallen in love. He was pretty sure the kitchen liked him back: someone who appreciated burners and cast iron and really good knives, and also someone who’d use those tools to cook for Colby.

Colby deserved that. Jason and the kitchen were in agreement about this.

He finished with that pancake. Slid it onto the plate to join its friends. Maybe too many friends.

He’d also thrown together scrambled eggs—relatively simple, this version, trying to be quick but finished with red pepper because Colby liked spice—because protein might be good. And bacon, American-style because Jason had some very loud feelings about English ideas of bacon and Colby was American enough, after those years in California, to also like that.

Might be a lot of food. Might’ve gone a little overboard.

Colby needed that, though. Needed care and cherishing and comforting.

Or maybe that was Jason himself.

His vision blurred, briefly; he set everything down, swiped a hand over his eyes, rested palms on the countertop.

Colby seemed okay, this morning—almost _too_ okay, concerningly so—

God. The memories. Colby white as graveyard snow and silent as grey stone. Colby staring down a conjured-up monster Jason could only imagine. Colby sobbing in his arms, crying himself to sleep.

He tried to breathe. Difficult. Something ripped open in his chest, his lungs. The pancake tower gazed at him in fluffy golden worry.

He couldn’t—if he couldn’t be enough, couldn’t do enough—if all his strength wasn’t enough, if he came apart now and couldn’t be a rock for the man he loved, who needed him—

He had desperately wanted to stay up there in the bedroom. Or to join Colby in the shower, to gently wash all that fantastic hair, to help clean every inch of smooth skin and maybe leave a kiss on the adorable freckle near Colby’s collarbone, the spot Jason’s mouth always wanted to nibble.

He’d wanted to be there. He’d been afraid, because he _was_ afraid—

How could Colby want that? Someone huge and hulking and naked, touching him—

He couldn’t understand, at this exact second, how Colby could ever have wanted him at all. Intellectually, somewhere in the rational part of his head, he knew Colby could and did, had made that choice, had said so over and over. He believed that.

The rational part of his head wasn’t the loudest voice right now.

He’d seen this with Colby, or something like it, once or twice before. Once, the worst—the worst before now—had been back during the filming of _Steadfast_. When they’d both been upset, Jason had been frustrated, and he’d let his voice get louder, flung arms up in exasperation—

He’d abruptly been petrified then too. Colby had just…shut down. Not as badly as this—he’d been talking, then—but not exactly present, snarled in the past, not responding to Jason as much as to ghosts. Some sort of dissociative episode, Jason’d guessed. Trauma. Flashbacks.

He’d figured out—they’d figured out—that that particular trigger had been his raised voice combined with sudden unpredictable motion. He’d felt sick to his stomach about it, but Colby said it was all right, he hadn’t known, they hadn’t known. They were working on that one; Jason had to sometimes consciously remember that his family’s tendency toward cheerfully dramatic shouting followed by equally dramatic apologies was the exact opposite of what Colby needed. Colby was trying hard to be better about recognizing that Jason could be mildly annoyed about laundry that hadn’t made it into the dryer—Colby’s writer-brain had interrupted with a scene for the upcoming musical—without that mild annoyance leading to vicious consequences, physical and emotional.

There’d been one or two others, none as bad as this. The time Jason had accidentally tied a knot Colby couldn’t get out of, wrists bound together and to the bed, and Colby had started shaking his head and said “No,” and had said it again and again, just that single word, until Jason frantically cut him free. The first time they’d attempted sex in the shower here in London, before all the renovations, and _that_ memory wasn’t one Jason wanted to revisit ever, thanks. He’d thought they were both pretty into it, and they both had been, right up until Colby’s last previous shower-sex sensory associations swung in and took over and everything’d spun from enthusiastic participation to a completely chilling lack of response and arguably even lack of consent. Colby said that that wasn’t true, he’d wanted to at the beginning just as much, and of course Jason’d stopped immediately upon realizing what’d happened, so _that_ wasn’t at all the same. Jason, who _had_ stopped everything as soon as Colby’d gone eerily silent, had had to sit down and try to not pass out or throw up, while simultaneously wrapping Colby up in a towel and rubbing warmth back into icy skin as blue eyes resurfaced and got more focused and aware.

He’d called their therapist while holding Colby, huddled on the bathroom floor. The next day he’d also called three different contractors about remodeling. But Colby had woken up and been able to reassure him, then. Had at least vaguely recalled what’d happened, how they’d gotten out of the shower, the sound of Jason’s voice.

This time had been worse.

Or he thought it had. Maybe. He wasn’t in Colby’s head. Couldn’t know.

Colby had kissed him. Had said, _I know what happened and why. I know you’re you and not him. I know that. I love you_.

Colby had smiled at him, and teased him about orders, and talked about feeling fragile but secure. Puzzle pieces. Glass. Spun sugar. Anchored in place. By cake metaphors.

Colby liked cake. And metaphors.

Jason loved him. So much, so desperately.

Maybe he should’ve tried to bake a cake. Colby might’ve appreciated that. He could bake a cake later if Colby wanted him to. However many layers might be requested.

The shower had turned off, upstairs.

Coffee, at least. Colby needed coffee. Morning routine. Warmth. Vanilla and macadamia nut flavors. Ground beans. Rich roasted scents in the air.

Jason lunged for a mug. The one he grabbed bore the logo of that children’s literacy foundation Colby worked with here in London, the one that got books into the hands of kids and invited them to read and recommend and pass along stories to others. In hopeful primary colors, it suggested he Share A Story With Someone!

“I’m trying,” he pleaded to Colby’s mug. “I’m trying—I’m doing the best I can, I swear—I know it’s not enough, I _know_ —but I love him.”

The vanilla-nut waft of steam brushed his face as he poured. He wasn’t sure what that meant.

He begged, even more quietly, “I just want to help. To be whatever he needs. Whatever I can do.”

Colby’s voice inquired, “Are you asking the coffee for assistance? It’ll tell you the same thing I will, which is that you’re splendid and I love you.”

Jason spun around. Barely avoided knocking pancakes across the floor. “You—shit—sorry! I mean—I thought—what’re you—you’re up!”

“I am.” Colby crossed over to him, bare feet silent against pale kitchen tile. “I’m here. What did you mean, you know it’s not enough?”

“I,” Jason started, and then just looked at him, really looked: drinking him in. Those bare feet, elegant bones under pink-and-blue plaid pajama pants. Long legs and long waist, and bare arms too, because Colby was only wearing a t-shirt, which…

…which was one of Jason’s shirts. Dark green, with the logo of the local game shop he’d wandered into and left with some new amethyst dice plus an updated Wizard & Wyverns handbook and starter kit because he’d left his ancient copy in Los Angeles and Colby had expressed interest.

The shirt was too big, but not ridiculously so. Their height difference wasn’t that much, just a couple of inches; the breadth, of course, was another question. But Colby’d managed some sort of stylish half-tucked-in effect that Jason would never be able to duplicate with any amount of effort, which had come out inviting and domestic and attractive. His hair was mostly but not completely dry, standing up and out in silky dark ruffles; his eyes were very very blue, and steady as they met Jason’s.

“Colby,” Jason’s mouth said helplessly.

“I’m here.” Colby came right up and put both arms around his neck, leaning against him. Jason gingerly put arms around him in turn; Colby smiled more, and added, “I meant it about the coffee. It thinks you’re absolutely marvelous.”

“Does it?” He had the countertop at his back, Colby nestled against him in front; when he breathed he tasted coffee and cinnamon and also the fruit-and-sweetness of Colby’s shampoo. “Our coffee…is having a good morning?”

“It wants to be here for you.”

“Thought I told it to stay in bed. Stay warm.” He tipped his head, leaned in, offered a fleeting kiss. No pressure, but a promise. He’d always want to kiss Colby Kent. No matter what.

“Oh, well…specifically, the order was to put on something soft and stay warm. And let you take care of me. You said _maybe_ stay in bed, as I recall.”

“Did I? Is that how this’s gonna go, today?” Something invisible eased. A knot in his gut, a vulture on his shoulder. Lifting off. Catching a breeze like a gift. Colby’s smile hadn’t gone away. “Didn’t think you’d be up for that. Not just today, I mean, you’re not usually a bratty kind of sub.”

Colby made a small entertained sound and leaned more weight against him. “I’m not. I don’t really want to be. But I am right and you did say maybe. So I’m not technically not listening. Besides, I wanted you and coffee.”

“You can have both. Right here.” Grip maybe a little firmer. Just a fraction. Testing: and that seemed to be going just fine. “You wanted me? I could’ve stayed up there with you.”

“No, you were right. I needed a bit of space, I suspect.” Colby did a little eyebrow-shrug at him. “It felt nice. Being on my own, standing on my own, for a moment. And then I wanted you, because I always want you. My bread loaf. And coffee-conjuror. And maker of pancakes with cinnamon. And—good heavens, how much food do you think we can eat? I know I’ve been eating more recently, but I’m not an entire medieval feasting-hall.”

“I just…wanted you to have options.” Jason bit a lip, glanced over at eggs and bacon. “You know. Anything you want.”

“Hmm. Did you want me to stay in bed?” Colby detached one arm from around Jason’s neck, leaned over, collected coffee, disappeared into caffeine without moving otherwise, and resurfaced. “Oh, yes, this…thank you for this. Would you like to help me carry everything upstairs, and I’ll listen properly and get back into our bed, and you can take care of me some more? That might be nice, I think. I could use that.”

Colby had said that would be nice. Could use that. Being cared for. Jason straightened up. “Yeah. Of course. I can get everything. You don’t have to carry anything.”

“I’m not relinquishing my coffee.” Colby sparkled at him over flavored morning indulgence. “You’ve made it for me. And I love it so.”

“Um,” Jason said. “It—it loves you too. A lot. If you didn’t know.”

He found a tray and balanced plates. Colby cradled the mug in both hands, a kitten given warmth, enjoying small sips.

They went back up, sunlight at their heels.

Colby settled down instantly into cupcake sheets and cozy blankets, collecting pillows, sitting up against the headboard. Jason set down the tray and sat down with him, because Colby clearly wanted him to. “You need anything else? Warm enough?”

“Fine.” Colby picked up a fork, found syrup, poured. Maple sweetness pooled over cinnamon pancakes. “But I do need something.”

“Anything—”

“I need you to join me.”

Jason looked at him. Colby lifted eyebrows right back, bite balanced on the fork. A drop of syrup held its breath.

Jason leaned down and ate the bite. Colby wanted him to. “…not bad.”

“Fantastic,” Colby said. “Which you know. I love you for all sorts of reasons, including your willingness to try to recreate the spaceship wedding banquet from the latest Alex Castle novel with me, in our kitchen.” He was also eating his own bite, and more. Jason’s chest expanded with pride. Colby liked his food. And his food was doing a good job caring for Colby.

He put an arm over Colby’s shoulders. Poked at a blanket-fold with toes. Eyed the game-shop logo on Colby’s shirt— _his_ shirt—and found a bubble of unreasonable delight rising in his heart.

Colby nibbled at some of every single thing he’d made, and finished ninety-nine percent of the coffee, and then looked up from the mug, somewhat guiltily. “Er…did you want some of this?”

“Nah, it’s for you. I had most of the orange juice. Go ahead.” He scooted more pancakes that way. “More?”

Colby looked at the plate. Then looked at Jason. Then turned the fork around and held it out. “Feel free to feed me, if you’d like.”

Jason felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

Colby curled up against him, boneless and flexible and contented. “Entirely serious. You like it, and I like it, and I like you taking care of me, and I like food, which I know you know, and—”

Jason judiciously interrupted the stream of chatter with a bite. Colby had meant him to, he was fairly sure.

Colby licked lips. Smiled sunnily at him.

“Oh, okay,” Jason said, “I can do that,” and did. Small bites, half teasing at first—Colby wasn’t helpless, and didn’t _really_ need to be hand-fed—but bleeding into a more poignant emotion with each repetition.

Bite after bite. A ritual. Connection. Belonging. Him feeding Colby, Colby accepting what Jason gave him, opening that eloquent mouth as if receiving a benediction. Colby safe and secure, well-loved and treasured. Surrounded by Jason’s care.

And he would take such care. Such care, with this man. His magical courageous clever other half, who’d known without words how much Jason had needed exactly this.

He said, quiet because of all the impressed admiration, “You asked for this for me. To make me feel better.”

“Hmm? Oh…yes, mostly.” Colby sounded kind of drowsy, and his head rested against Jason’s chest. When Jason peeked down, his eyes had become a little drowsy too: not the transcendent bliss of deepest subspace, still inarguably awake and articulate, but getting dreamy around the edges. “For myself as well…I feel lovely just now…but yes. I did hear you, in the kitchen. Jason…”

“I’m okay,” Jason said. He was, or was getting there. Because of Colby.

“Don’t ever think you’re not enough.” Colby tipped his head back to look up and find Jason’s gaze, holding Jason’s heart there too in sweet trusting blue. “Everything you are, everything you do—it’s so much more than I’ve ever had. The way you touch me, the way you love me…it means so very much. And if you say it doesn’t, then—then you’re not listening to me properly. I _know_ how much you matter to me, you see. And even if—if I’m not all right sometimes—you’re still here even when I’m not. Do you know how much that means? You wanting to stay with me. Wanting to help. _That_ helps. I promise you it does. You’re all my baked goods. Breakfast pastries. Home. With cinnamon.”

“With cinnamon, huh?” He had to say it lightly. Heart too full. He kissed the top of Colby’s head. “You’re happy.”

“I am. With you, because of you, because of us. Who we are together.” Excitement hovered at the corners of floating submissive jewels: in those glorious eyes, in that glorious voice. “I did have one more idea. I’m not certain I’m ready for sex yet—at the moment I’m full of breakfast and coffee, and I might be a bit…what was my metaphor? Pudding? Wobbly. Trifle. With jam. Not quite balanced enough for sex. But soon, I think. Sorry, I’ve lost track of the first sentence, where did I start? Not with the jam trifle.”

“You had one more idea, you said.” He had one arm wrapped around Colby; he rubbed Colby’s arm, liking the presence of his hand against bare smooth skin and toned swimmer’s muscles, under the edge of a sleeve. “Not sex. Agreed. Whenever you’re ready, whatever you’re good with, you just tell me when and what you’re up for. You’re in charge here. I’m listening.”

He was.

Colby glowed at him some more. “Oh, good. I mean, not precisely—I mean you know I’d rather have you in charge—but also in that case you might go along with my idea. I thought perhaps you should be naked, you see.”

Jason opened his mouth, shut it, then said, “I can do that.” It made sense, after the first second’s shock. Colby wanted to see him, to feel him, to know this was him; to reclaim this for them. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“You done with the food?”

“For now, yes.”

Jason moved things. Sat up. Kept his eyes on Colby. And pulled off his shirt.

“I do like that view,” Colby said helpfully.

Jason laughed, _didn’t_ want to cry, dammit, and got up for a sec, peeled down sweatpants—he hadn’t bothered with boxers—and set those and his shirt on the chair where he’d fold them later, and turned back around.

Colby looked him up and down. Jason’s dick had its usual reaction to being looked at by Colby; they both contemplated that too.

“Um,” Jason said. He wouldn’t say he was nervous, as such; he wouldn’t say he wasn’t, though. Weird churning feelings. Swooping butterfly throngs. A sense of immanence, of significance, like he hadn’t felt since…maybe since the first time Colby Kent had walked into his hotel room, squared determined shoulders, and announced, “I think we ought to have sex.”

Colby put his head on one side, then moved some blanket-layers, hooked thumbs into his own pajama pants, and whipped them down and out of the way, so fast that Jason didn’t have time to be surprised. This left him naked under Jason’s oversized shirt; the shirt actually covered a lot, but left his legs exposed, long and awkwardly graceful against silly playful cupcakes.

Jason’s dick got even more pointed about its interest. He said, “Um, Colby…”

“Come here.” Colby patted the bed. “ _Not_ sex. Only…only hold me, please. So I can feel you. You, and me, and me being yours.”

“Got it.” Jason climbed back into bed, stretched out on his side, gathered Colby in close. Colby came without hesitation, and their bodies fit together, the way they always did fit, the kind of fitting that made Jason’s eyes burn hot. So right. Everything he’d never known he was missing, until blue eyes and rambling sentences and compassion had plunged into his life.

His dick pressed up against Colby’s, caught between their bodies and shirt-cotton. Colby was kind of half- or mostly-hard, partway there but not as much as Jason’s own response. Jason understood, and hid his face in waves of beloved hair for a second, just breathing. Colby’s shampoo and conditioner contained coconut oil and something he vaguely remembered as being mango or papaya or something else tropical; he liked it. He’d borrowed it once or twice himself, though he hadn’t committed to switching; he liked his own cedar and sage too.

He had one hand resting on Colby’s back, over the shirt; he had the other arm wrapped around Colby as well. He let a hand drift up to rest at the nape of Colby’s neck; he murmured, “Still mine, like you said,” and felt Colby nod. He added, because it felt right, “You have good ideas.” Every atom of his body agreed.

They’d have some more to talk about, later; they’d call their therapist, later. Colby had said so, and was right about that too. That might hurt also, in the way draining a wound could, but it’d be good. For them both, he thought: for Colby, and for himself, and for their respective reactions.

Something like this might happen again. In public, even. He knew that now, in a way he hadn’t fully understood before. They both knew.

But if it did happen, they could handle it. They _had_ , this time. They’d made it through and woken up holding onto each other. Here _for_ each other. And professional advice, structure, tools to think about recovery and agency and leaning on each other, would help even more. They’d be okay.

We _are_ okay, he thought. Together. Me, and him. No, not just okay. We’re _awesome_.

“I love being yours,” Colby murmured back, words a kiss against Jason’s collarbone. “I truly do. You take such excellent care of me when I need that, and I do need that, Jason. And I want that. I want this, with you.”

Jason’s thumb wanted to caress Colby’s throat; he let it, and Colby made a wordless sound of pleasure, and Jason marveled at that too. “You take pretty fuckin’ good care of me, too, y’know.”

“I try.” Colby’s accent landed both euphoric and amused. Castle banners flew high and scampered in the wind, against bright skies. “I like your hand there…doing that…”

“I like knowing you like it, baby. My hand on you, just keeping you here…all safe, all mine, right where I want you…because you want that.” He hadn’t stopped the caresses. “Also kinda like you in my shirt. _Only_ my shirt.”

“I thought you might. I like that as well.”

“So…not sex yet, but when you can—” It would be a when; Colby had said _soon_. Jason trusted that. He played with the shirt-collar for a sec. “—maybe sex with you just wearing this?”

“That was the rest of my idea, yes.”

Colby sounded far too smug, so Jason rumbled, “Fine, but you’re doing the laundry after I make you come all over yourself and my shirt,” and Colby began laughing, and the sunbeam tickled Jason’s toes.

“Fine by me,” Colby agreed, merriment spilling over all the words, body quivering against his, “I approve of your plans for our future. I love you holding onto me precisely like this. And I love you. So very much.”

“I know you do,” Jason told him, “I love you, and I love holding onto you, and I love us having plans for you, so that’s just, y’know, perfect. Like you.”

“Me—”

“Like us,” Jason said, and Colby said, “Yes,” arm tightening around Jason’s waist with the affirmation, binding them even closer in a tapestry of cupcake sheets and naked skin and Jason’s shirt, woven with the scent of coffee and the taste of maple syrup and morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The four songs in my head for this are Toad The Wet Sprocket's "Come Down," Buddy Holly's "Everyday," The Cure's "Friday I'm In Love," and probably most of all, Lifehouse's "Breathing." 
> 
> Back to fluff after this! I swear! Some of those little scenes I've got pieces of involve Jason's parents hosting their engagement party, Colby sneakily proposing to *Jason* (he wanted to get to do it too!), Jason and Colby rehearsing for a John Kill sequel scene...


	14. a few more snapshots of the future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six more little pieces of their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least three of these came from various conversations in comments and messages, so - these belong to you guys, really! <3

_One – proposal, part two_

Colby Kent, Jason had learned beyond doubt, definitely talked after sex. And during. And in the babbling unfiltered rapture of subspace, eyes shining.

More specifically, Colby talked when _happy_ during sex. And after. Often.

Jason lay sprawled on his back across the hotel bed, every muscle humming with profound physical satisfaction, with Colby cuddled nice and close along his side; he stared up at the inn’s historic-but-renovated ceiling for a while, just basking in all the feelings. He knew the ceiling approved.

Colby, after all, was totally happy. Had just been _extremely_ happy while in Jason’s lap and riding Jason’s dick, and was currently saying something about lemon icing and sweetness and tartness and good sex, and also something about lemon tarts and tea, except not the beverage, only teatime as a concept, and would it still count as teatime if it was late at night and also he had coffee…

“…but also what if we ordered their cheese plate assortment, they’re so proud of that here and I do like cheese,” Colby said, and then narrowed eyes at him. “Why’re you smiling?”

“You. Cheese. This hotel.” He’d cleaned them up just enough to be less sticky, less covered in mutual release; they both remained sweaty and flushed and exhilarated. Light from the fireplace painted Colby’s skin in amber and honey and ochre; an open weekend bag smirked from the luggage rack. A few carved sheep cavorted around bedposts and fireplace stone, thrilled to see them both again.

“Me and cheese and this hotel.” Colby considered this. One calligrapher’s hand rested on Jason’s chest; Colby’s index finger drew a heart over Jason’s skin, idly. The fourth finger on that hand wore a ring, now. Simple straightforward dark gold, though the beveled edges had a hint of texture, subtle and intriguing; it’d made Jason think of star charts and gears and steampunk kisses.

It also had a very small inscription along the inside: _steadfast_. He’d wanted the word to say everything: the past and how they’d met, the future and his promise to stand at Colby’s side.

That luscious voice went on, calligraphy itself, “You like all those things. You arranged this for us.”

“Kinda meant to propose to you here, y’know.” He was amused that Colby’d needed to mention the arrangements; Colby did know, because Jason had admitted as much two weeks ago.

He’d had a plan. Come back to this glorious old English countryside piece of cheesemaking and sheep-farming history, where they’d spent the first night after the first informal semi-proposal, when Jason’s mouth’d blurted out the idea. Bring the ring along. Give Colby the best and most romantic weekend ever, full of history and food and tender possessive sex, surrounded by the crackle of the fire and the low silvery rustle of rain. Take Colby out onto the tiny balcony, at some point—the way Will and Stephen’d first met in that _Steadfast_ scene—and get down on one knee.

He _had_ made arrangements. And then he’d looked at Colby two weeks ago, in their kitchen. The man he loved, sitting at the bar while Jason decided to add more spice to their chili, cozy and domestic, comfortable and safe. With sock-feet and messy hair. Talking about a romance novel he planned to buy a fourth copy of: wanting to support an author he adored, wanting to do something that’d make someone else happy, as always.

Jason, who’d already bought the book in question, had had to give it to him then—but had had to give him something else too. Couldn’t wait. Not another second.

He’d brought out the ring box while Colby’d been distracted by the book-gift. He’d gotten down on one knee on the spot, right there, with pumpkin chili simmering in the background.

He couldn’t even recall exactly what he’d said. He was pretty sure it’d covered how wonderful Colby was, how much damn fun life with Colby was, how much better Jason’s whole world was now, probably something about reading fantasy novels together, and he thought maybe he’d even mentioned the museum of penises they’d wandered into in Norway. He’d been nervous as hell, not because he wasn’t sure about asking but because Colby was tearing up a little and the penises likely weren’t helping.

Colby had said yes. So much yes. Eyes bright and eager, voice bright and eager too, throwing himself into Jason’s arms with Jason’s ring officially on his finger.

They’d gone on this vacation anyway, to celebrate.

Which they’d been doing. Thoroughly. Nakedly. All afternoon and evening so far.

“I know you meant to!” Colby popped upright beside him, abrupt exuberant pixie-motion; Jason hastily loosened the arm that’d been folded around him. Colby might need space, still a little shaky sometimes about sex and strong hands, or maybe—

“I’m fine! I can hear you fretting!” Colby dove back in to kiss him, a whirlwind of rumpled dark hair and wide blue eyes and post-orgasm energy. Like the talking, Jason thought, fond and familiar: Colby after _really_ good sex came back from subspace giddy and talkative and enthused about _everything_. Food. Thunderstorms. Stories. Jason himself. Or newly possible sex positions and experiments with extremely careful bondage and control.

A single bite of complicated wistfulness nibbled his heart: this should’ve been how Colby always felt. Every time. Hadn’t been, though. And the knowledge of how bad it _had_ been grew a few more spiky teeth.

But only for that single nip. The past was the past, and, yeah, it shaped who Colby was now, who they were together; but Jason Mirelli loved the person Colby Kent was. Always. Forever. Steadfast.

“Don’t worry,” Colby told him, “I’m splendid, you’re splendid, I was making a point about your original purpose for us here, I’ll get to that, you just stay right there, just like that, you’re very marvelous and I love your muscles and I love you,” and bounced off the bed in a hurricane of endless legs and sudden plans.

Jason pushed himself up on elbows. Colby clearly had something in mind. And loved his muscles. And him. That meant it was a good something, right?

He watched Colby fish something out of his shoulder bag, the one with with all the books. He watched Colby spin around, naked and unbothered by that fact, and run back over to him.

“Honestly I thought you might’ve guessed.” Colby hopped back onto the bed, legs folded under himself, expression midway between serious and merry. “I know how you feel about surprises—but I did tell you I’d also been looking at rings, and then we came here, and I know you know I know this was your original plan, and then I nearly said it just now, so—”

Jason had started to say something about the surprises. He got out, “Colby—” and then his brain caught up and put _rings_ and _proposal plans_ and _now_ in the same sentence, and all his thoughts turned into diamond-sparkle fizzy elation.

No. Couldn’t be what he thought. No. Yes. Could it? Maybe?

But he’d already asked, he’d done the asking, Colby’d said yes—and he knew Colby had loved _being_ asked, being wanted and cherished and claimed by someone—he _knew_ Colby hadn’t gotten as far as buying rings or planning a proposal, not because Colby wasn’t right there with him but because in that complicated head the whole idea of being loved had been so improbable for so long—

“Me,” Colby said. “And you. And, you see, the thing is—I loved you asking me, it was perfect, I loved everything about it, from our kitchen and the coffee to the book and the penis museum—”

“Sorry!”

“No, no, it was exactly right, that’s what I’m trying to say, it was everything I’d never even dared to imagine!”

“ _Was_ it,” Jason grumbled, not with any force.

“Perfect,” Colby said again, leaning forward. His eyes held Jason’s and refused to let go. “I never did imagine it—I never had an image of what that would look like, someone proposing to me, because I never thought someone would love me enough for that. The way you do. I didn’t think I’d have that. And then you were here, and you do love me, even when I talk about cheese after sex or want to count all the adorable carved sheep—I’ve found eight in here so far, but I haven’t checked that table on your side—”

“Sheep…?”

“Oh! Right, yes. Sorry. Er…if you’ve got the museum, in your version, I’m allowed to ramble about sheep. I was attempting to say that you managed the exact proposal I would’ve dreamed of, if I had. About us. _For_ us. And I love you so much, you know, and—and I hadn’t known I wanted to ask, I mean I hadn’t known I wanted to _get_ to do the asking, I hadn’t thought—but then you did, and I felt so loved, so wanted, and I want to do that for you as well.” Colby paused. “Are the words making any sort of sense? I in fact meant to do this a bit later, perhaps with some clothing on, perhaps on the balcony. But it felt…right, just now. The way you feel right.”

“Oh my god,” Jason said—no other words, and the champagne fizz had spread to his toes—and sat up more, both of them naked. He hugged a pillow just because. It didn’t mind being squished by large breathless arms.

“I love you,” Colby said. His accent, as usual, turned the world—Jason’s world—into a fairytale. A happily ever after. “I want to give you this. The way you did for me. You did the lovely speech, the asking, all of it, and I thought—you should get to have that as well. That moment. And I—I want to, you see. For me as well. Wanting this, saying so aloud. So…well, yes, this is me proposing to you. If I haven’t said so yet, which I’m fairly sure I haven’t, because I hadn’t practiced this in any way before now, so you’re getting all the words as I think of them.”

“I love you,” Jason said. “I love all your words. I love you, Colby.” His eyes prickled. A lump of emotion got into his throat. He hugged his pillow more.

He hadn’t known either. He hadn’t known until right now how much it’d mean.

He’d wanted to do the asking, for Colby; he’d wanted _and_ expected to, especially since he’d accidentally already done it at George’s place before that. He’d wanted Colby to be sure of being wanted. He’d only figured out right this second that he’d also always kind of subconsciously assumed he’d be the one to do the asking, even in a vaguely-defined pre-Colby image of his future.

Colby had somehow known, even when Jason himself hadn’t, how ridiculously _right_ this would feel. The way all the pieces of Jason’s heart—the pieces that liked fantasy and had discovered steampunk romance novels and believed in happy endings—would light up and threaten to overflow with tears at being asked.

Colby held out the box—small, tasteful, black—but didn’t open it yet. “I know you love me. I know that—I believe that. I believe _in_ that. Love. Because of you. I didn’t, you know. Not for myself. And—”

“Colby,” Jason whispered.

“And then,” Colby went on, gazing at him, “and then you noticed me, on set. Not in the way that people notice, er, Colby Kent, movie star, and all that. You looked at me and saw me, when I was scared and lonely and hurting, and you asked what you could do to help. Whatever you could do that’d make it easier, you said. And you bought bagels and tried to make certain I ate breakfast, and you listened to me even when you were frustrated with me being stubborn at you, and you cared so much—you took such care, with me, but not only me. You care with your whole heart, about characters, about stories, about people.”

Jason gave up on trying not to cry. Colby loved him. Colby wanted this, wasn’t being scared or shy or afraid to want this, to ask this. With him.

He swiped a hand over his face. Colby reached out and took it. Fire-heat spread and pooled along their fingers, their bare arms.

“You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met,” Colby said. “The best person I know. You always ask what you can do, how you can help, what you can rescue and save and protect, because that’s who you are. My fantasy hero. My knight. My cinnamon bread loaf. Delicious.” He was smiling, though his eyes were grave and excited as the skies before thunder, blue as horizons, sure of each word. “I do like the way you taste. Kissing you…and other things.” He even threw a glance at Jason’s dick, which perked up in reply. Colby had that effect on it.

Colby said, “I want to be married to you. I want this, Jason—I want you. I love you. I want a life with you. I can see that, I can imagine that, and I believe in it. Waking up with you, making dinner with you, standing beside you on movie sets, here or in London or in Los Angeles or wherever we’re filming—looking over at you and knowing you’re here with me, we’re together, for all the weather—you know I do love rainstorms. I’ve always loved them. I love that it’s raining now, and I love that you wanted to give me this moment, and I want to give you this moment too. I’m so very much in love with you, Jason. Will you—I expect it’s a somewhat repetitive question at this point, but I _want_ to ask you—will you marry me?”

He opened the box, on the words. Gold, matching his own, shimmered darkly. Similar, if slightly heavier in size and shape, made to fit Jason’s bigger hand. Also simple, maybe a little more textured than Colby’s, a hint—but just a hint—more rugged.

The inside also had a design, not a word but a small eloquent symbol: a miniature version of a nautical star compass, centered by a tiny blue stone.

“I couldn’t resist some sort of diamond,” Colby explained hopefully. “And yours was so perfect for me, for us, and I thought…I know you don’t like terribly fussy designs but you are, well, my compass, if you want the metaphor? Finding my way home.”

Jason very literally couldn’t talk. He sat there naked with Colby smiling at him, in the bed where they’d just made love and laughed and held each other after, and gazed at his ring, which Colby’d chosen for him.

“Er…Jason?”

“Oh my god,” Jason said, “yes, Colby, yes, hell yes,” and discovered more laughter, tears, sheer all-encompassing joy. Wrapped up in firelight and carved sheep and a curl of gold.

“Oh,” Colby said, “good!” and he sounded so genuinely relieved that Jason did start laughing, helplessly reaching out and trying to pull Colby closer, forgetting about the pillow he’d been clutching, getting it squashed between them, tossing it away.

Colby caught his overeager hand and held it. And slid the ring onto his finger.

The weight felt right, so right, just right; Jason had to laugh again, and to kiss Colby through all the emotion, quivering with wild head-to-toes delight.

Outside, on the windowpane, the rain cheered them on. It mirrored the fire, which leapt up in heated applause.

“You didn’t think,” he got out between kisses, marveling at the sensation and the sight of his hand, “I’d say _no_ —”

“No—well, I didn’t _really_ —you might’ve hated the ring, or thought the whole idea of me asking was—”

“I love you,” Jason announced, Colby now securely nestled beneath him in bed, long legs fearlessly looped around Jason’s waist, blue eyes glowing up at him like _his_ diamond. “I love this ring, and I love you asking, I love you wanting to ask, and I love you. Fuck _yeah_ , I’m saying yes, I’d marry you right now if you wanted. Right here in bed. Sheep for witnesses. Cheese plate for dinner.”

Colby’s eyebrows lifted, though he didn’t bother to move, radiating complete contentment under Jason’s weight. “In bed? Good heavens. I expect it would save time as far as our wedding night. And I do love good cheese.”

“Cheese display,” Jason agreed, unshakably euphoric. “A tower of cheese. A whole castle. At the wedding. Next to your coffee bar.”

“You know me so well.”

“You know _me_ ,” Jason said. His hand had ended up cradling Colby’s head, buried in dark hair; he moved it so he could see it all. Gold. His fingers. Deep brown wavy strands against his skin. Miraculous. Magical. A fantasy. “I get to get married to you.”

“You said yes,” Colby said, “to me.” His voice came out very soft, not hesitant but wondering: as if the reality’d only just sunk in.

“Yes,” Jason echoed, “you’re my yes, always,” words which emerged without making any sense at all, except he thought maybe they did, inarticulate and true, from the way Colby reached up and tugged his head down and kissed him.

_Two – at the time that feels right, after the previous chapter's bonus scene, with all the hurt/comfort_

Jason ambled out of the bathroom post-shower, muscles happily worn out from a good session at the gym, towel haphazardly tied and sliding down around his waist, and started, “If you want, we could—”

Every word evaporated. No more thoughts about lunch or bookshop expeditions. Stunned cloudburst delight.

Colby, lounging across their bed, casually stretched one long leg out Jason’s direction. Then tucked it back up.

Colby had very naked legs. In fact, Colby only had on one item of clothing, which was Jason’s local game-shop shirt. Dark green, with the tumbling dice logo, it hit the tops of his thighs and made his legs even more endless, his skin smooth and tempting, his eyes darker blue.

He’d obviously posed. Artistically arranged across deep-blue star-flecked sheets. His hair was extra-fluffy too, soft and brown and rumpled as if from bed, and the sparkles in his eyes matched the stars.

Jason’s towel unwound itself and plopped to the floor.

Colby said helpfully, “I definitely want,” and pushed himself up a little more, on one elbow: languorous and playful and decadent all at once, a vision from a geek pin-up calendar, surrounded by starry sheets and Jason’s shirt. The shirt, slightly too big, added some paradoxical youth and adorableness—especially with the hair and the big eyes—but also provided a devastatingly erotic tantalizing _almost_ -reveal of Colby’s cock.

Which was, Jason noticed, undeniably up and hard. Wanting this. Wanting him.

He got out some sort of collection of syllables. Might’ve been Colby’s name.

“I did say soon,” Colby said, “about the sex. And I told you I wanted this. I did have plans for us and this shirt. Er…if you would like that?”

They hadn’t done much lately. Colby’d been recovering—hell, they’d both been recovering. Triggers. Flashbacks. One of Colby’s worst-ever instances of dissociation, after the presence of his ex. And Jason’s own fear of not being able to help enough, not being able to protect the man he loved—or worse, to cause more harm: too large and powerful, too much potential to hurt…

They’d been dealing with it. Therapy sessions. Time. Talking. Sometimes naked, or mostly so. Colby said that that felt good: feeling Jason there with him, holding him, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Colby said Jason did a lot, in fact. Just being there. Staying. Loving him.

Jason kind of loved that idea, that maybe he _was_ doing something, that maybe his loving Colby was exactly what he was meant to do. He could do that forever. With enthusiasm.

He took a step forward. His whole body wanted more steps. In fact, his body wanted to leap right onto Colby and shove those endless legs up in the air and plunge right in while his shirt slid up along Colby’s stomach to frame the scene. “I, um. I absolutely like that. Um…does that mean…you want me to…come over there…right now?”

They’d taken the step to sex, at least the kind involving hands and orgasms, two days previously. It’d been Colby’s idea then too. Jason had been carefully not asking, not mentioning. Not pushing. Colby had looked at him thoughtfully one morning, reached for Jason’s hand, and asked, playing with Jason’s fingers, “Touch me?”

That peak—found together, Jason’s big hand wrapped around both their cocks and stroking—had been sweet. Jason, cradling Colby against himself in the reverent aftermath, had thought he’d be happy with that, with only that, forever, if Colby said so.

Colby, from the bed, batted eyelashes at him: ridiculous and silly and seductive, flawlessly terrible acting from that award-winning presence. “You and coming were both certainly part of the plan. In me, I was hoping. I do love feeling that. Feeling you. I may’ve also managed a bit of preparation involving lube, while you were in the shower.”

 _OH FUCK YES,_ said Jason’s brain—and other parts—in capital letters. “Oh fuck yes…” said Jason’s mouth, out loud.

Colby laughed, spread those legs a little more, put out a hand. Beckoned. “Yes, exactly that, I think? Please.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jason said, and ran—naked and thrilled—over to him.

_Three – boot kink, perhaps_?

“Colby,” Jason said, half a groan, wholly heartfelt. On his knees, looking up, the view was everything he’d dream of for the rest of his life: Colby Kent in a gorgeous blue-and-black corset and silky black underwear and thigh-high black boots just _made_ of leather and buckles and the definition of kink. Colby’s legs went on forever, and Colby’s skin was smooth and pale in contrast, and Colby was laughing, pink-cheeked, not quite embarrassed.

“I felt just a bit ridiculous,” Colby said, “at first, but, well, you do seem to like it…and I like it as well, I think. How I look. The effect it seems to have on you.” One hand came down to stroke Jason’s hair. “You’re still very much in charge, here. Tell me what you’d like to do with me.”

“Oh, I know I’m in charge. You’re all mine.” He slid hands up, stroked them along Colby’s inner thighs. He’d laced the corset fairly tightly; Colby had shivered and murmured the yes to that, as Jason’s hands moved. It could’ve been tighter—Colby’s breathing was only slightly aware of increased pressure—but that hadn’t been the point, right now. Though Jason thought they might have to play with that one more, later. They both had liked it, he thought.

He’d also gently lovingly opened Colby up, fingers stretching that pretty hole, and then put their second-largest plug in while Colby moaned and pushed back against him, begging to be filled. He couldn’t see it, covered up by fabric now, but they both knew it was there. The awareness sizzled in his bones, and made his cock throb.

He trailed a finger along the line where boot-leather met skin. “God, I fucking love your legs.”

“I’m starting to think you do have a thing for interesting footwear.”

“I have a thing for you in interesting footwear.” Reflected in the tall mirror, the sight doubled, became even more erotic, sent fireworks down Jason’s spine. Himself kneeling at Colby’s feet. Between long legs and wicked black leather. Worshiping his prince.

He leaned in. Pressed lips against the swell of Colby’s cock, through silk. Colby was rock-hard and leaking, the way he’d been ever since Jason tugged at corset-strings; his thin expensive underwear was getting all slick and wet.

He said, nuzzling each word into the bulge, “I want you to stand right there while I make you feel good, and you’re not allowed to move and you’re not allowed to come, I know how much you like me making you wait, me telling you when and where you get to get off, so you’re gonna wait until I say.”

“Oh god,” Colby said, a little desperately. “Yes, sir. May I—may I ask a question?”

Jason sat back on both heels and looked at him. “Always, baby, you know that.”

“What do you want me to do? For you, I mean. You said not to move, but…you don’t want me to do anything to make you feel good?”

“I want you to feel everything.” He rubbed a hand over Colby’s cock, hard enough to earn a small whimper. “And you’re doing everything for me. You looking like that, taking what I give you, being so good and following orders…”

Colby whimpered again, probably inadvertently; his cock twitched under Jason’s hand.

“ _My_ Colby,” Jason said, with satisfaction.

Colby trembled all over with desire—and that absolutely was desire, from the look in those eyes—and whispered back, “Yours.”

“Good. Now don’t move. And don’t come.” He took the hand away from Colby’s cock, though. Lower. Deliberately stroking black leather and the curve of Colby’s calf. Letting his hands linger there. Fitting one around Colby’s ankle, squeezing—not exactly a restraint, but that idea.

His dick _loved_ that idea. Upright and hot and stiff, it literally ached with need. Jason gave in and wrapped one hand around himself, stroking idly; and then, on impulse, guided the thick head to rub against Colby’s right boot. Fat and flushed, it left a filthy shining smudge.

They both might’ve moaned at that one. Colby wobbled a fraction on his feet.

“Shh,” Jason murmured, “you’re okay, you’re doing fine, so good for me…you like this, don’t you? Just being good, while I do what I want with you, while I play with you…”

He rubbed himself against Colby’s boot again. Leather, his dick, the contrast and the sensation of it: body-warm now, stiff, more sticky-slippery as some want pulsed up and made messy smears across decadent footwear.

Colby let out a soft sound, a small happy submissive noise; glancing up, Jason noticed his head drooping a little, lips parted and wet where he’d licked them. Good; this was going well, then, if Colby’d slipped that far under.

He let his right hand drift higher, leisurely: over Colby’s bare thigh. He leaned in and kissed that thigh, and did it with some force: enough to leave a pink mark there.

He cupped Colby’s balls, through silk. They felt exquisite. He pressed a finger behind them, just teasing, exploring, claiming every inch.

Colby made a different but similar small sound, wordless, yearning and poignant in surrender.

Jason paused to adjust position—getting his dick snugly pressed up against Colby’s leg, liking the pressure and the rub and the sensation—and then walked fingers further back, and played with the base of the plug, right there where he could feel it, where it was keeping Colby stuffed and stretched for him.

He still hadn’t gone back to touching Colby’s cock. Colby’s silky briefs were fucking soaked, and Colby sobbed Jason’s name, swaying, hips rocking before remembering not to. Everything about the moment—the corset, the mirror, the push of Jason’s length against Colby’s tall boots—hung in decadent intoxicating suspension, drenched in leather and desire.

Jason brushed lips over fabric, right at the tip of Colby’s straining cock, tasting it on his lips. Colby said his name again, and then, as if a dam had burst, more drowsy streaming words tumbled out. “Jason—oh god, that—please, please, I need you, I need to come, sir—no, oh no, I don’t, I don’t want to, you said—not until you said I could, I want that, please let me have that, I love being good for you, I feel so good right now—it’s so odd, so heavy and light and all gold and white and sort of slow, like cream, nice and thick and flowing out…oh god, Jason, I need…I don’t know, I feel as if…am I already coming, or going to come, god, just like this, it feels so—I’m all _wet_ , I think, it feels like—god, my _cock_ , sir, I can feel it, getting everything so wet for you, please…”

He was also panting now, breathless from the corset and the babbling subspace high. Jason said, amused and aroused and hurting with love, “Cream, you said, baby?” and tugged Colby’s underwear down partway, making the head poke out, deep pink and slick and obscene against the blue-black lines of the corset.

Colby always did get wet for him, leaking copiously as Jason played with him; the amount now was impressive even for that, and more drips spilled over from his tip as Jason watched. Jason, liking this, licked it up; Colby outright wailed, body jerking, which rocked his leg into Jason’s dick.

Jason groaned aloud. And then put lips around Colby’s tip and sucked.

Colby tried to scream, ran out of air, and moaned, “Jason…” His voice sounded dazed, shattered, fairy-story towers lost to the vines of a spell. “Oh, Jason…oh, sir, that…god…”

Jason paused, assessing. “Colby? You still with me, baby?”

Colby just sighed, head falling forward, legs shaking. Jason sighed a little too, smiled a little, and got up, and tenderly eased Colby down to sit on the side of the bed, brushing dark hair back from unfocused huge eyes. “I know you’re feeling pretty good, baby, all nice and floating and sweet, but I need you to check in, okay? I need you to be able to talk to me.”

Colby blinked, managed to find enough awareness to look at him, and whispered, “Jason…”

“Good. So good. How’re you doing? I love making you feel good, but I need to know you’re here too and you like what we’re doing.” He rubbed a thumb over Colby’s mouth, slack and delicious and pink. “Color, Colby. Tell me.”

Colby blinked again, eyes all round and dark. But took a breath, as much of one as he could. “I’m all right. Green, Jason.”

“You sure about that?”

“Mmm. Yes. I’m not sorry you stopped. For a moment. Overwhelming, but in a splendid way. God…that was…” His eyes drifted back there, momentarily. “Oh, yes.”

“More?”

“Please.”

“Okay.” He scooted Colby forward a fraction, poised at the edge of the bed; he said, “Move your hips a little. Make yourself feel it.”

Colby did: rocking hips, making the plug move inside his body. His mouth fell open again; his cock, where Jason’d left him exposed, dribbled more fluid all over himself and his corset and his silky tugged-down underwear. His legs, framed by tall black boots, spread further, helplessly.

Jason knelt back down. The rug brushed his bare shins with softness. Also cream-colored, he noticed.

He wanted to laugh, to kiss Colby, to come all over Colby and cover his beautiful submissive other half in his own release.

He murmured, “God, Colby…so fucking perfect…looking like this, letting me have this, trusting me with this…”

“Oh, Jason,” Colby breathed, cheeks more pink now, hair beginning to stick to his face, hips moving, teasing himself over and over. “Yours, always, all yours…tell me to come, or don’t, please do what you’d like with me, please…so good, with you…always, with you. So nice.”

“Nice, huh?” He had a hand on his own dick now, stroking, pumping. His pulse pounded. “You like it when I tease you, get you close, make you wait for it? Feels all nice and soft and good inside, for you?”

“Oh, yes…” Colby’s eyes closed, opened; he was breathing in small gasps now. “Nice…everywhere…like you. You feel so nice, sir…Jason…I know you’ll make me feel good…trust you…so good…”

“Oh god,” Jason said, a sudden blurting-out of words; he was going to come, he absolutely was, just like that, with his hand working his dick over the shiny leather of Colby’s right boot, with Colby dreamily mumbling words about feeling good and trusting him…

“Love you—” he got out, and he _was_ coming, whole body taken over by white-hot lightning, release spurting out in jets across the straps and buckles and leather of Colby’s boot.

He sagged forward, still on both knees. He pressed his face into Colby’s thigh. He could smell, could taste, his climax, splashed across Colby.

He sat up, lightheaded, exhausted and giddy and wonderful. Colby was watching him, eyes huge, lips wet from a swipe of tongue.

Jason had an idea. Gathered Colby’s leg up into his hands. Adjusted position. Then leaned down and licked: lapping traces of himself off Colby’s boot.

He’d never done anything like that before. But he’d wanted to. Still wanted to. Did it again. Wanted to roll around in that sensation: filthy, kinky, glorious, opulent as hand-tooled leather.

Colby quivered in place, body tensing, relaxing, tensing again. Jason lifted his head, grinned at his submissive. “You like seeing that? Me licking my come off your boots?”

“Jason,” Colby whimpered. He might’ve been about to come, on the brink, shuddering with the waves of it.

“I like that too.” Jason kissed his thigh, over the fading pink mark from earlier. “Because you’re all mine, my sweet Colby, and if I want you dressed up in boots and a corset while I come all over you, when you don’t get to, then that’s what we’re gonna do. The way you like. Being mine.”

Colby made a new sort of sound, this time: infinitesimal, incoherent, like a cloud or a feather or a drop of that cream. The corset kept his back upright, but something else changed: more languid, yielding, faraway. His eyes were luminous.

“I wouldn’t really not let you come, baby,” Jason informed him, and got up to sit on the bed with him, pulling Colby into his lap. “You know I wouldn’t do that. Make you wait, yeah, ’cause you like that, but you know I’ll always take care of you.” Colby’s weight felt good atop his legs, against his body, in his arms. He liked that feeling.

Colby gazed up at him, gorgeous and trusting, eyes wide: sapphires clouded by ecstasy and surrender. Long legs and arms weren’t coordinated, falling all over the place; his head rested against Jason’s shoulder. In corset and boots and pulled-down underwear, cock dripping and a fat plug nestled inside him, with Jason’s come drying on his leg, he was beautifully despoiled and also beautifully sweet, almost younger somehow, wide-eyed and guileless and given over to Jason without hesitation.

“Taking care of you,” Jason murmured, and rearranged Colby’s pretty black panties: just the head of that lovely long cock peeking out, so it’d be visible when Colby came. He put his hand back on the shaft, stroking, rubbing. Some forcefulness, making it register, _making_ Colby come: pulling the orgasm closer and closer and out of him. “You’re so good for me, doing so good, Colby. Okay. Go on. Come for me. Show me how good you’re feeling.”

Colby let out a sweet small sigh, nestling closer to Jason and Jason’s hand caressing his cock; his entire body tightened and then went soft, clenching rhythmically around the plug in his ass, collapsing into a long slow shuddering climax. He came in waves, pulses, maybe more than one orgasm; Jason kept stroking him, kept praising him and petting him and watching him as the come pooled all over his stomach and the corset, dripping back down and getting into his soaked underwear. Colby sobbed and twitched, and another long streamer of fluid dribbled from his cock, and his head fell further down against Jason’s chest.

Jason kept him there for a while, judging how much he knew Colby could take against how amazingly far under his incredible submissive other half had gone. Colby seemed completely lost in bliss, making broken euphoric sounds, mouth pressed against Jason’s chest and just tasting him, nuzzling at him, even suckling a little, without any coordination; his cock softened but kept dripping for a while too, clear thin random spurts and trickles. He was warm and lax and heavy, and felt good to hold, the way Jason’s chest felt good: also warm, fiercely alight and proud and radiant with love.

His Colby. Giving him this, entrusting him with this. Vulnerable and unafraid. Because Jason had earned that trust.

He kissed the top of Colby’s head.

Colby slowly stopped moving as much, simply overcome and worn out by sensation. He wasn’t asleep, though; he left clumsy kisses against Jason’s chest every so often. Jason gently tucked his poor well-used cock away, back into ruined black silk panties, and then just held him, kissing him in turn, rubbing his back, talking to him some more.

Colby resurfaced gradually but with shining eyes. “Jason…”

“Love you.”

“Oh my.”

“Good?”

“I…don’t even…good isn’t the word. I’m not certain there _are_ words. I’ve never felt…that was…I still feel so…”

“Want me to get all this off you?”

“Iridescent,” Colby decided on. “So many blurry rainbow colors. All over. In my toes and my fingers. And my…my cock…” Despite everything, saying that one made him laugh, blush, and hide in Jason’s neck for a moment. “My god. I’m very tired, but also very…new? Renewed, perhaps? Yes, please, unlace this—actually first can you take care of the, er…plug…it’s feeling even larger now.”

“Yeah, of course. I like taking care of you.”

“Mmm…Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Good for you, as well? Everything.”

“Fuck yeah,” Jason said. “You didn’t notice?”

“I did think you rather liked the outfit, and the way I look, like this…” Colby’s eyes danced in weary blue celebration. “And of course the boots. You do _so_ have a thing about me in kinky boots.”

“Yeah, you know…” He ran a hand over black leather and straps, over Colby’s calf—the cleaner one—proprietarily. “You might be right. Starting to think I kinda do, when it’s you.”

_Four – a possible project_

“Colby?”

“Yes?”

“You know that animated movie…the one they want us both for…and, I mean, I’m happy to fall in love with you anytime…it’s just…”

“I do like the idea of two princes falling in love while in disguise, don’t you?”

“Yeah, so much. But…Colby…I mean, you _have_ read it…”

“And I love it. It’s a brilliant screenplay and a brilliant step for a children’s fairytale. I know that’s not your objection, so—”

“They want us to sing! Both of us! It’s a musical!”

“Er…yes?”

“Did someone tell them _I_ could sing? I know _you_ can! Everyone knows you can!”

“But you can! Especially that fantastic rock-ballad style. I’ve heard you. And you’re going to sing a bit for Andy’s rock musical!”

“Not as much as you! I’m just your manager in that one! I only sing when you pull me into a, y’know, song!”

“Jason…love…I promise you’ll be fine. You’ll be wonderful. I’ve heard you, and I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t think you could. Besides…I want to do this one with you.”

“…you’re helping me practice.”

“Of course, if you’d like. I’m _good_ at helping you.”

“I’m not sure kissing me counts as—oh, okay, yeah, I see how it does. Come here and help me out more.”

_Five – engagement party_

Colby both had and hadn’t expected his various parents to make appearances at his and Jason’s engagement party. He considered his father, thoughtfully, for a moment; and then went inside and opened a new bottle of wine, mostly to have something to do with his hands. He hadn’t been drinking much, but they were in need of more, out on the lawn.

The Mirelli kitchen folded welcome around him. It felt like home, built in oak and granite and burners and multiple ovens and a lot of love. Donatella Mirelli, overjoyed at her son’s happiness, had brought in staff and friends and family from the award-winning restaurant; Jason’s grandmother, refusing to let anyone else share the honor, had made a stunningly beautiful millefoglie as a centerpiece, layer upon layer of delicate pastry and cream and berries. Jason’s father, who knew everyone in Hollywood via generations of stuntperson family connections, had finally been persuaded to keep the guest list more intimate; that meant only a minor horde of Mirelli aunts and uncles and cousins had descended, Colby thought, with fondness.

He poured a glass for himself, but did not go back into the shining busy expanse of backyard, green with grass, sweet with lemon trees, strung with twinkling lights. No one else was in the kitchen at this precise moment, though one of his young future cousins-in-law came in, looked around, said, “Aunt D says we need more prosciutto flatbread, with the—” and then paused, getting concerned. “You’re all alone in here!”

“I’m not,” Colby said. “You’re here. Would you like me to help with that?”

“Absolutely not,” Anita retorted, “it’s your party, and anyway Aunt D’s paying me. Are you _sure_ you’re okay? Jason’ll drop-kick me if you’re not and I leave you alone.” Her cloud of seventeen-year-old black curls bounced as she picked up flatbread.

“I adore Jason,” Colby said firmly, “and he’s not permitted to practice martial arts on you. You can tell him I said so. I’m coming back shortly. It’s only…”

The crowds, out on the lawn, rang with merriment. Jason’s father, arm around his son, slapped Jason on the back; Jason’s uncle Frankie was telling some sort of story with epically-sized hand gestures.

Colby’s own father, who had in fact made an appearance, had managed to corral one of the producer-cousins and was jovially sipping good scotch while talking about campaign donations and industry favors. Colby, who had heard the beginnings of that discussion—his father was a politician to the core, and could never resist making deals—had smiled politely, intensely disliked being held up as an example of Howard Kent’s capital-letter Commitment To LGBTQ Tolerance, and ducked away as soon as possible.

“Right,” Anita said, also looking out at the lawn. “People. Got it. I won’t tell anyone you’re in here, but, like, it’s not the best hiding spot? People’re in and out of this kitchen all the time, tonight.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m…opening wine. Was Jason looking for me?”

“Always yes, but not yet. I’d suggest Uncle Luca’s office, or, like, Jason’s old bedroom or something.” She winked at him, and added, “Jason would _love_ finding you in his bedroom.”

“I’m starting to suspect,” Colby said, “that your entire family is unnervingly invested in my and Jason’s sex life. I’ve been given three recipes for some sort of family secret aphrodisiac tiramisu, and you don’t want to know what your grandmother told me about the cinnamon caramel sauce. I’ll be out in a moment. Unless you do need help, in which case just tell me what to carry, I’m available.”

“Nonna must love you,” Anita said, “she doesn’t share that cinnamon caramel with just anybody, but of course you make Jason happy and you can cook, so you’re pretty much already adopted, even before the wedding,” and grinned at him and took flatbread and went out, feeding family.

Family, Colby thought; and smiled a little, to himself, fiddling with the stem of the wineglass as it sat on the counter. Family. Adopted. Belonging.

His friends had come as well, Jillian and Andy and Adrian and Leo and Sam; they were enthusiastically mingling with Jason’s extended family and appreciating stories about spaghetti westerns and the Mirelli family legacy, which went back several generations and had woven itself inextricably into the history of early film production and daredevil stunt work and high-speed car chases. Sam had the camera out, capturing the night.

He did have friends. A small number of them, but enough: people he trusted. People he wanted to trust. People he liked having nearby, with him, even touching him. He was doing better about that, mostly, these days. Learning how much he liked being held by Jason—tucked under an arm, cuddled against protective muscles—had helped. His body liked the feeling.

His mother hadn’t made an appearance, though they’d invited her. Jason’d said they didn’t have to, in a tone that hadn’t forgiven Lydia Sable-Kent for the phone conversation in which she’d suggested that Colby being in hospital was an attempt to steal attention from her own dazzling literary-elite career. Colby, who knew his mother, had sighed and said, “If we don’t invite her, she’ll write a poem or an editorial about it, you see, me being an ungrateful child…” and had picked up an envelope.

Lydia, or rather Lydia’s current secretary, had sent regrets along with a signed but not personalized copy of her latest book, which Colby assumed was meant to be a present. It wasn’t dreadful poetry, as such—his mother had a reputation for a reason, a lover of experimental techniques and obscure linguistic tricks and exploratory boundary-pushing format—and he’d sighed again and set it to one side. Jason’s disgust, and anger on Colby’s behalf, had been evident; Colby loved him for that.

He left the wine glass and wandered out of the kitchen—Anita was right about the people coming and going; more were heading his way—and into the large merry greatroom, with the oversized squishy furniture that was made for heaps of family, and the Tuscan landscape painted by one of Jason’s great-great aunts, and the sense of humor of a Los Angeles ranch-style sprawling house that’d weathered years of excitable family reunion hurricanes. The biggest wall held what Jason and Jason’s sister referred to affectionately as the Mirelli Family Portrait Gallery: years of faces, moments, laughter and pride. Movie sets and weddings and Allie’s college graduation. Antique sepia-toned portraits side by side with snapshots of Aunt Coco’s kids in a swimming pool. The opening of Jason’s mother’s first restaurant, with Donatella beaming at the camera, posing with a whisk.

He stopped, though, surprised. His stepmother, delicately balancing a glass of white wine in a manicured hand, was standing there as well, examining the pictures.

Colby looked at Tinsley Kent for a moment—she hadn’t noticed him—and at the photo she’d been studying, which he recognized. He took a deep breath, and carefully went over there too, keeping some space between them.

His stepmother, startled, blinked at him. Her eyelashes were very long and expertly darkened; her makeup was flawless, in the way of paint over a paper-thin china cup. Her hair was very blonde, artificially and expensively so, and her dress fit the idea of a politician’s young and stylish—but not _too_ young or stylish—wife’s appearance exactly.

Tinsley, of course, had been one of Howard Kent’s infamous office interns. Not the first of the affairs, and also not the last; but she had, Colby reflected philosophically, managed to be the one to marry his father’s money, which said something about her skill and ambition if not her taste in men.

He never had talked to her much. They’d met on a few occasions; he and his father did at least get along well enough to occasionally collaborate, when Howard’s political interests aligned with a cause his son genuinely supported, most recently an American version of a childhood literacy initiative that reflected the version Colby’d been working with in England. Voters wanted it, the optics were good, and there’d been quite a lot of room for financial padding and maneuvering; but the impact would matter nevertheless.

He didn’t know his stepmother well, though. Lots of polite smiles for the press. Small talk at a luncheon or two. But Tinsley generally stayed out of the politics, went shopping, and sometimes bought a new horse, as far as he knew. He felt a bit bad about not knowing more, just now.

He offered, “Sorry, I truly didn’t mean to sneak up on you?” She regarded him uncertainly, as if wondering why her stepson would apologize for appearing at his own party, and said, “Congratulations?” in the way of someone searching for a conversational placeholder.

“It’s odd,” Colby said, “but I’ve never been much for parties really, as such? I mean I love Jason and I’m happy to celebrate, but I never quite know what to do in large gatherings. You’d think I would, being on stages and sets and late-night talk shows for interviews, but I never have been terribly good with people.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered up that admission. Something in her expression. In the pale brittle porcelain-blue of her eyes. In the fact of her standing here alone, before the wall of joyous tumultuous loving family, while his father went off to talk about money and connections.

“I always liked parties.” Tinsley looked at the photos again. “But I like riding on my own. Or with one or two friends. It’s nice like that. You ride, don’t you? You did in that miniseries. The historical one. I liked that one.”

“Oh, well. I do, a bit. I learned for that role. It’s been a while.” He hadn’t known she’d seen the miniseries. “But I did enjoy it. I know you’re far more experienced than I am, but we could go out together some time if you’d like?”

Tinsley stared at him. Took a sip of wine. Colby wasn’t sure whether this was promising or not.

She said, “You mean that. It’s a real offer.”

“Ah…yes?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“I tend to hear that a lot.” Colby gave her a smile, tucked hands into pockets, regarded the imposing Wall of Mirelli History. “I’m astonished anyone puts up with the real me at all.”

Tinsley put her head on one side and looked at him. “You don’t even know me. And you did mean it. You’re not just saying it. The way anyone else would.”

“Not anyone else,” Colby protested. “Not Jason, for instance. He means everything he says. It’s been something to get used to, the way he puts his whole heart into everything. And, you know, just because I don’t know you, that’s no reason not to get to know you; more the opposite, perhaps?”

“I married your father.” She turned the wineglass; rose-hued fingernails caught the light. “I know what you must think of me.”

“I try not to judge people,” Colby said, a bit more wryly than he’d meant, “for making their own decisions about relationships. I’m hardly an expert.”

“He’s always busy. Howard. We don’t even talk. He’s never home. Of course I knew…” She drew a breath, let it go. “I knew who he was. And who I am. This one—you and your Jason—you look so happy together.”

Colby looked, too. That picture made him smile, as it always did.

Himself and Jason, on the red carpet for _Steadfast_. Their first-ever red carpet as a couple; this photo had in fact been taken by Leo’s boyfriend Sam, though he hadn’t been a boyfriend yet at the time, and because Sam was a genius the moment was utterly perfect. Jason’s arm around him. The adoring expression on Jason’s face, gazing at him. Colby himself looking at Jason, captured just before a kiss, and yes, wholly transcendently happy.

He agreed, “We are. Sometimes I can’t quite believe it’s all true.” Outside, Jason would likely be wondering where he’d gone, by now. Or perhaps not wondering: Jason knew he needed space, and Anita would pass along the update. Jason would come looking shortly, though. Worrying over him. Big and tender and wanting everything to be perfect.

His stepmother said, extremely quietly, “I wish,” and stopped herself, and then put on a smile, brilliant and fake as glass diamonds. “You should go. Be with him. Enjoy the party.”

“In a minute,” Colby said, “I’m here with you,” and looked at the next photo, the one with himself included in the family at Jason’s father’s birthday party. There’d been party hats. An enormous classic-car-shaped cake. Laughter. “I’d meant to say earlier, by the way, I love your shoes. And the nail polish. You’re marvelous at complementary colors, with my father’s suit and tie and everything; I’ve always noticed that, in pictures of you two together. That’s such a skill, picking just the right elements, and you’re so very good at it.”

Tinsley now looked even more startled. “I didn’t think—it’s not as if—Howard never notices.”

“But you do, and other people do, of course. It does matter.”

“You,” Tinsley said, a bit hesitantly, “had that gorgeous pair of Marc Hart boots, in raspberry, for that press event you did at that historic tearoom place—I noticed because I love that style, and that color…”

“I like color,” Colby said, “and I adore those boots, but I actually rather want something softer and maybe blue, sort of ankle height, this time, but I’ve never paid much attention to designers and labels, I’m afraid, only style, so if you’ve got any ideas as to where to start…” and promptly listened to her suggestions of names and collections and certain shades of blue, as she gave them with increasing enthusiasm.

She interrupted her own stream of recommendations at one point to say, “…if you’re out here in LA for a while, I could stay a few more days, we could go shopping—” and then hesitated as if aware that her famous actor stepson, whom she did not after all know very well, might say no.

“I’d like that,” Colby told her, and she smiled more.

Out in the kitchen, Jason had been summoned to help his mother find more champagne flutes for the upcoming toast. He’d heard by means of his younger cousin Anita that Colby had wanted some space; knowing his family’s exuberance, he’d immediately understood. He did want to check in on his fiancé, though—Colby was almost certainly fine, but Jason liked kissing him anyway—and had headed for the house, and had been waylaid by his mother and the champagne flutes.

He didn’t entirely mind. He loved his family, and he loved Colby being part of his family. He loved the engagement ring on his finger, and the one on Colby’s. He loved his friends being here, Brick and Christa and the kids, and Evan with his James, who Jason didn’t know as well but who looked at Evan with such clear devotion.

He’d found himself walking around all filled up with contentment. So many people he cared about. All in one place.

Donatella Mirelli beamed at her eldest child and hugged him with more enthusiasm than glassware generally warranted, then ruffled his hair the way she’d done when he was younger and shorter. “Look at you. All grown up and getting married.”

“Not too grown up for your handmade cannoli.” Jason stole one from the back-up tray on the counter. Shoved it in his mouth just to watch his mother’s eye-roll. “Mom, do you want these out with the—”

His mother poked him in the chest. Hard.

“Ow,” Jason protested, mostly out of reflex.

“Oh, as if that hurt, you’ve jumped out of race cars on fire,” his mother observed. “Look over there. At your adorable other half.”

They both looked. Colby. And his stepmother. Standing near the Mirelli Family Portrait Wall, talking softly. Colby seemed to be saying something; Tinsley Kent smiled uncertainly through shields of makeup and coiffed hair and polished nails, and answered too quietly to hear.

“But,” Jason began. He knew Colby’s feelings about family. About his father and ambition and choices that’d look good in the press or on a campaign poster. He knew Colby and Howard Kent managed to be cordial, mostly because Howard was an experienced politician and Colby defaulted to pleasing people, but they did connect sometimes across intersections of usefulness. Like Howard demonstrating proof of his commitment to supporting gay constituents by hauling his son into publicity-shot photo opportunities, or contributing to a feel-good youth literacy campaign that Colby genuinely believed in.

Colby didn’t talk about his father much. Come to think of it, Colby talked about his stepmother even less. Jason wasn’t sure they’d even met more than a couple of times.

He watched Colby across the expanse of cream-filled pastry and his family’s familiar home. He was decently sure that Colby’s stepmother, given that she’d been one of Howard’s interns, was closer to Colby’s age, or at least Jason’s own age, than her husband’s.

He wondered what Colby had wanted to say. What she’d answered in reply.

Maybe he should go over there. Swoop in. Collect his future husband.

His mother put a hand on his shoulder. Her smile held all the warmth Jason remembered from growing up in this house, that kitchen: simmering meatballs, stolen nibbles of dark chocolate frosting, being allowed to stir a pot or taste-test a pasta sauce, and hands that would calmly bandage up any number of scrapes acquired from childhood daredevil stunt practice or helping out with a car at the track’s garage. “He’s a kind person. Forgiving.”

Jason eyed his fiancé and his fiancé’s overly polished stepmother, and complained, “Maybe a little _too_ forgiving…”

His mother leaned a hip against the counter, folded arms, lifted eyebrows. Jason knew that look. He and Allie had always confessed everything to that look. His mother could outwait a saint when requesting an explanation.

He watched Colby some more. “He wanted to invite them. He even invited his mother. Not that she’d ever lower herself to accept. He knew she wouldn’t. And his father’s out back trying to charm Uncle Frankie into switching political parties.”

“So he keeps trying, even if he knows it might hurt.” Donatella’s eyes were steady, regarding her son. “He believes in hope. And in people. And you love him, and he loves you.”

“He almost gave up on that,” Jason breathed, to her, to the evening, to the patient cannoli. “Believing in people. When we met, and he was—I can’t let anything hurt him. Not ever again. I’ll stop it. Whatever it is.”

“My son,” his mother said serenely, “the action hero. I’m sure you would. I’m sure he knows it too. But have you considered that he may not need that?”

Jason opened his mouth, shut it. Looked at her, and at Colby, and back at her.

“I’m certain he appreciates it,” she added. “And he could use some rescuing. His family…well. _We’re_ his family now. But he’s also a grown man, and not your latest Kill Girl damsel in distress.”

“Um. About that—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve put that young man in a sparkly gold bikini on a speedboat, Jason Lorenzo. I saw the last one.”

“No! Um. Not unless he’s written something I don’t know about. He’s sort of. Writing the next one. And I get to be bi. I mean John. In the movie. And in love with him. Because I am.”

They both considered this verbal flailing, and the importance of it, for a moment. Jason poked at the spare dessert tray with a finger. Got it more neatly lined up with the straightness of the counter’s edge.

His mother said, “I’m so very proud of you. Your father is, too, you know. So proud.”

“You are? I mean…I know. I mean, I kinda figured.” He managed to keep the words light. Casual. Over all the emotion in the world. “I know.”

“And I think he’s a good match for you. Your Colby. As strong as you are, just differently.” His mother grinned at him. “You just let him tell you when he needs the rescuing. And let him handle his own fight scenes.”

“He can,” Jason said. “He can do anything. He’s…” Words bloomed, were inadequate for Colby Kent, failed. “Everything.”

He looked at Colby again. His soon-to-be husband. Beautiful and tall and generous in fluffy brown hair and slim grey trousers and a cuddly blue knit sweater with rainbow stitching at the bottom and the edges of sleeves. Talking with the stepmother who’d never been part of his life, having noticed her abandonment by his father. Because Colby was that kind, at heart, and that brave.

Here, this evening, Colby was surrounded by friends and family. Jason, watching, hoped he knew that. Hoped Colby understood. How worthy of love, and warmth, and care, he was. How much of that he had: people who did care, who did love him, who’d be there to cheer at their wedding.

He wanted to go over there and kiss Colby senseless, right on the spot. Because of all the kindness.

He watched Colby ask a question about Tinsley’s fingernail polish. At least that seemed to be the question, as they looked at her hand and then at Colby’s. Her face, posture, expression got more enthused. Not lonely.

Jason found himself swallowing hard. Lump in his throat. His heart. Getting too big to contain.

Colby turned slightly to say something about one of the photos on the wall—probably one of himself with Jason’s family; Jason couldn’t imagine Tinsley Kent cared about long-deceased turn-of-the-century Mirelli ancestors—and caught sight of Jason and Jason’s mother. Lit up and waved.

Then ran over, bringing his stepmother along. “Jason! I would’ve come to find you, in another moment. We were discussing boots. And nail polish. Sorry, I did mean to come back, I didn’t want to worry you—I’m not delaying anything as far as the celebration, am I—”

“No apologizing,” Jason informed him, and put arms around him and pulled him in for a kiss.

A deep possessive kiss. Holding Colby against him. Tasting rich wine and vanilla cream, tongue plunging into Colby’s mouth, shamelessly plundering. Colby, who liked being claimed and conquered and overwhelmed by cherishing, got more soft and sweet and submissive, lips parted and pliant, eyes dreamy.

Jason, smug about this result—possessive and incontrovertible displays of affection, he’d learned, were an almost-surefire way to get Colby at least partway into that headspace—but very aware that respective mother figures were present, didn’t let the kissing go on _too_ long. Just enough.

Anyway, his parents had never been shy about displaying their affection. His family had zero shame in general, at least around each other.

He stopped kissing Colby to say, “Love you. Mom, are we doing the toast now? Or toasts plural. I know us.”

“Mmm,” Colby said, leaning against him. Those big blue eyes still seemed a little hazy around the edges from thorough kissing. “Toast. My bread.”

Jason rolled eyes at him. Exaggeratedly. “Terrible. Terrible joke. Kneads work.”

“I don’t know whether I want you to explain that one to me,” his mother said, “but if you’re done loafing around, yes, you can carry more glasses out and give them to people.”

“I love your entire family,” Colby said to Jason. “Oh! Speaking of family, Tinsley and I are going shopping for footwear. Possibly early next week. You could come along, or meet us for lunch.”

Colby’s stepmother’s expression, then, was one Jason’d seen a lot around his future husband. Swept up in the hurricane of niceness that was Colby Kent, unsure how to believe it all was real, but wanting to.

Colby, he thought, had said _family_. About her. When Howard Kent had barely spent a minute with her since arriving.

He said, “Just tell me where and when you want me. I’ll be there.”

His mother poured champagne, golden and sparkling; she held it out to Tinsley, who took it, surprised but not unwilling.

“So,” Jason said, arm around Colby, “how embarrassed am I going to be by whichever childhood story Dad’s going to tell everyone, when it’s his turn?”

_Six – a rehearsal_

“I’m never telling you the location,” Jason said, off-book, lines mostly memorized, maybe a little more than half in character. He wasn’t actually tied to the chair, since it was one of their kitchen chairs; Colby, in front of him, crossed arms and simply watched, waiting. In the scene there’d be several more Evil Henchmen, plus the mastermind demanding the stolen plans to the apocalyptic superweapon. This one was an opening scene, though: the usual mini-adventure that’d end in triumph and serve as the pre-credits introduction. “You know I won’t. So kill me and get it over with.”

“And so John Kill once again resorts to self-sacrifice.” Colby made the line entertained and ironic: dismissing the whole idea as cliché. “I can think of several more intriguing ways to put you to use.”

He even stepped in closer, between Jason’s spread legs. Also in character. Sinuous, deadly, charming, and amoral. Jason once again remembered just how good an actor Academy Award winner Colby Kent was.

Character layered into every motion, every head-tip, every stillness, every syllable. Believable and spine-tingling. Even here practicing, running through this scene at home in their sunny kitchen. Even with Colby’s coffee-mug being an audience on the counter.

The character Colby was playing in this scene wasn’t the mastermind in question. But he needed to prove himself to that mastermind, who had some reservations about the newest recruit’s loyalty to the cause.

Those reservations would prove justified. Not just yet, though.

Colby put out a hand. Trailed a finger along Jason’s cheek. Cool blue-eyed menace promised even more: dangerous, wicked, seductive despite everything. “Definitely…intriguing. Perhaps you’d even enjoy yourself.”

Jason’s dick, which had a lot of feelings about Colby touching him with elegant manipulative command, got happily stiffer in his jeans.

Colby broke character to laugh. “Seriously?”

“I can’t help it! It’s you!”

“We’ll have to find a way to handle that one on set. Perhaps if I, er, assist you with it first, right before…”

“Yes please.”

“I might rather like that idea. Filming this scene, knowing we’ve just done that, the taste of you still on my tongue…”

“Exhibitionist,” Jason said cheerfully. Colby wasn’t, in fact. Not in reality. But had some fantasies that direction, which Jason on occasion took full advantage of: the idea of it, words murmured into Colby’s ear, suggestions of what they _might_ do, always got some excellent reactions. “You just like the idea of getting on your knees for me seconds before you have to be on camera. Seriously, though, how much do you want me—John—to actually believe you? I know I’m supposed to be pretending I do, to not give you away, but the audience doesn’t know who you are yet, and we want them to be surprised, so the pretending part shouldn’t be obvious. Also I don’t know you that well either, new person on the team and all, and there should be a second where I’m worried too, right?”

“Yes, I think so.” Colby perched on Jason’s left knee. In black jeans and a flowing silky black t-shirt—he’d tried to find the closest to ominous he owned, in that colorful wardrobe—he moved from threatening interrogator to amused fiancé to thoughtful scriptwriter in the flick of an expression. Jason looped arms around his waist and waited.

Colby went on, “Cam’s only just joined the team, yes, and he wouldn’t be here without Brent’s recommendation, but you don’t _know_ me—as Cam—the way you knew Brent. And yes, we planned this together, you know I’ll free you instead, you know we’re theoretically stretching it out to buy time for the others to escape, but…everyone has a price, too. In this world. So you’d believe it, or at least have the moment of…wondering. How good an actor Cam really is.”

“There’s also the fact that they’re both totally into it.”

“Into each other? Yes…that’ll be interesting as well. The attraction’s real, even here.” Colby’s smile flashed mischief, not evil but maybe some mastermind writer tendencies. John and Cam, of course, would eventually end up together. Happy endings for all impossible-mission action heroes involved. “It’s a good thing you and I have…explosive chemistry, isn’t it, considering what we’re about to do to the building?”

“Mmm,” Jason said, and leaned in to kiss him. “Combustion. Bad puns. Delicious.”

“Shall we do it again? I’ll try not to notice your enthusiasm. Or else work it into some improvisation, for now. This time perhaps we can at least get up to the part where I free you and slip you my spare knife? Before the first big fight sequence. Which I’m looking forward to.”

“Me too.” Jason nibbled at Colby’s ear while he could, since Colby’d have to get up in a sec. He was totally looking forward to that. Showing off. Doing what he’d made his reputation on. With Colby at his side.

Colby-as-Cam wasn’t meant to be quite as good as John, of course—John had to get the hero choreography, and Cam’s skills lay more in infiltration and disguise and sabotage and technological wizardry—but also wouldn’t be on the team if he couldn’t hold his own. Jason, as John, would do some protecting, some covering him, but not too much; they’d be impressively in sync, most of the fight. Lots of foreshadowing: how well they fit and flowed and trusted each other.

Colby, who’d never done action scenes on quite this scale, had been working hard with Evan to learn the choreography. He’d also practiced Cam’s knife-throwing skills and done some consulting with real hackers and retired government agents and masters of disguise, Jason knew.

Jason also had some serious doubts about his own ability to get through that first fight sequence without getting extremely inappropriately—or maybe extremely appropriately, considering characters and desires—turned on. Colby always had that effect on him anyway, with those big eyes and that excitement about the world and those endless legs; that wasn’t in question.

But Colby in clinging black tactical gear, tying him up and seducing him with devastating skill, and then spinning around to whip a knife at one henchman and very capably deliver an incapacitating kick to another one’s kneecap, all while cutting Jason free from a chair? _Hell_ yes.

Colby, clearly having similar thoughts, looked at Jason’s lap. Licked his lips. “I can see that you’re certainly up for that, yes.”

“If we do it one more time,” Jason said, “and we like how it feels, then maybe we skip to that later scene, you know, where we have narrow-escape thank-god-we-made-it-out sex for the first time? I feel like we should definitely rehearse that one.”

“Lots of practice.” Colby hopped up from Jason's knee, took a step or two away, didn’t put back on Cam’s competence or need to prove himself or secret feelings for John quite yet. Only ran a hand through his own hair, making it fluff up more, and grinned. “Lots of emotion. Caught up in it. Right here, right now, and we just can’t hold back. And I’m suddenly getting everything I want, or rather Cam is, though the question then is whether it means anything for John or whether it’s simply adrenaline…”

“It does,” Jason said. “Of course it does. It’s _right_.”

“Yes,” Colby said right back, “of course it is. One more run-through, then, and then you can shove me up against a wall and stare at me for a passionate second and then kiss me? I do like that moment.”

“Yeah,” Jason told him, “I like that moment too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I was listening to The Goo Goo Dolls a lot while writing these! I feel like "Stay With You" and also their cover of "Give A Little Bit" fit nicely here, and also maybe "If The World Turned Upside Down." 
> 
> The next (last?) bonus scene is of course Evan and James, though I haven't written much of it yet. :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Character Bleed Fan Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135221) by [TheRenegade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRenegade/pseuds/TheRenegade)




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